


C19, H28, O2

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Bisexual John, Body Dysphoria, Bullying, Cutting, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Explicit Consent, FTM Sherlock Holmes, Gender Dysphoria, Hand Jobs, John is a Saint, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Misgendering, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Oral Sex, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sixth Form, Teenagers, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock, Transphobia, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: A new school means a new start for Sherlock Holmes. Given a clean slate, Sherlock sets out to present himself as the boy he knows he is. He soon finds a friend in the form of John Watson, the boy who makes Sherlock's heart ache in want and in worry.But not everyone is supportive of Sherlock's decisions, and he struggles to keep his secrets under wraps.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for checking out this story!  
> Here are a few notes:  
> 1\. I am not a trans man, but my beta reader is.  
> 2\. Sherlock's opinions, thoughts and feelings about his body and his gender are not what every trans man feels or thinks. This story is not intended to be read in that way - everyone is different.  
> 3\. Please tell me if I can improve my use of terms in any way.  
> 4\. There will be mentions of transphobia, descriptions of sex, and depictions of dysphoria in this story. Please be mindful of your own triggers, and do not put yourself at risk. xx
> 
> Added: Sherlock binds using two sports bras in this chapter. Do not do this. Always bind safely and responsibility, and seek guidance from manufacturers of binders.

It was probably cliché to re-invent yourself on the first day in a new school.

But Sherlock was past caring.

He looked at himself in the mirror, stroking his hair down, unused to seeing his own ears so much. Were they sticking out? Or were everyone’s ears like that? He couldn’t be sure. He ran a finger under the collar of his dark grey shirt. The red tie was a stark contrast, and he wasn’t sure the colours suited him, but this was an old-fashioned sixth form – the uniform was part of the school rules.

And Sherlock was already planning to stretch them to their limits.

He touched his ears again, wondering if he should have left his hair just a bit longer. He'd never cut his own hair, before.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft barked. “You’ll be walking if you don’t get a move on.”

“Right,” Sherlock grunted back, listening to his brother thud down the stairs.

The ebb and flow of nausea in his stomach increased. Mycroft was the first obstacle. Get past him, and there’d be more. Lots more. Obstacles every day until the day Sherlock died.

He could still change his mind. He could still shove on his uniform from his old school, make out his new clothes hadn’t come in time – no one would care, that much.

He made a fist, and looked at himself in the mirror, again.

No.

No, he could do this.

He had to, really.

He couldn’t stand it, anymore.

Sherlock clicked the light off, and headed out, and for the stairs. He took them two at a time, as always, enjoying the semi-freedom of his parents being out of the country (missing his first day, typically), and thundered into the kitchen to grab his school bag.

There was a clatter of a knife hitting a plate.

“Sh-Sherlock.”

Sherlock swung his bag onto his back. “Mycroft.”

“Sherlock… what on earth…”

The younger Holmes looked up, licking his bottom lip with nerves. He was shaking, even as he shoved his hands into his pockets, and stuck his chin out, trying to look tough.

Mycroft was staring at him as though he’d seen a ghost. Or a premonition, maybe. His eyes were goggling, mouth open, croissant in his hand crumbling in his grip as he gawped in a most unattractive manner.

“See you later, then,” Sherlock said, to break the silence.

Mycroft blinked, seeming to shake himself. He put the remains of the pastry on his plate. “…yes.”

“Bye.”

“Sherlock – wait – ” Mycroft took a step after him.

Sherlock stopped, a lifetime of younger sibling conditioning making him give in. “What?”

“You just…” Mycroft looked him over, eyes darting from Sherlock’s face to his chest, to his trousers, and back up again. “You look very grown up.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to gape.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You’re going to be late.”

Sherlock didn’t smile. He just nodded. “Right. See you.”

He slammed the car door, and exhaled shakily, relieved that his first encounter seemed to have gone well.

Well enough, anyway.

At least he wasn’t going to be late for his first day. An argument would have been most inconvenient.

 

*

 

John Watson _was_ running late.

Cycling late, to be specific. He’d had a rushed morning dragging his sister out of the bathroom, and trying not to touch the sick in her hair before realising he no longer fit in his school shoes, and having to wear his trainers, instead. He’d get bollocked for that, but he couldn’t help it. He’d have to nick some money off his dad and get some new ones when he had the chance.

“Late, Watson,” Mr Young barked at him as he darted into his tutor group at five past nine.

“Sorry, sir,” John threw himself into the first empty seat - beside some new kid. “I was –”

“And you’re not in uniform!”

“I had a shoe issue,” John said sulkily.

“You’ve had six weeks off to sort shoes, what on earth is your problem, Watson?”

John looked at the desk.

“This is your warning. Shoes tomorrow, or you’re on report. Now, copy your timetable down, please.”

John nodded, accepting a new planner from the kid next to him, and scribbling his name and address in the front before copying the relevant subjects into the week from the display on the whiteboard.

“I hate to add to what has obviously been a trying morning,” a whisper came from beside him, “but your pen appears to be leaking down your sleeve.”

“Fucking hell,” John twisted his arm around to see the blue smear down his skin. “That’s just brilliant.”

The kid next to him fished a biro from a clear plastic pencil case, and flicked it over without another word.

“Cheers,” John wiped an old tissue down his wrist, and carried on writing, before capping the pen and leaning back. “Uh, talk about first day mayhem, right?”

The new kid made a noise of ascent. He was probably shy. New school, after all.

“I’m John,” John said, filling the silence. “How’d you like St Barts, so far?”

“It’s ok,” the boy glanced over. He looked very young, and John wondered if he’d skipped a year.

“You know where you’re going for period one?”

“Mm… Chemistry,” the boy held his planner up. “Room 202.”

“Well, that’s easy enough. Science block, second floor. You doing any other sciences?”

The boy glanced at him again, looking confused. “Physics. Maths. Law.”

“I’m doing Biology, Chemistry, Physics, and P.E.,” John said, wondering why the boy was retreating further into his shell. People normally gave in a little when someone was trying so hard to be social.

And indeed, the boy looked over properly, and raised his eyebrows. He did look young – he looked clever, too, with sharp eyes and high cheekbones, and dark hair that looked choppy and messy. He didn’t look as though he smiled often, but John could have guessed that, by now.

“You’re doing all the sciences – and _P.E._?” the boy scoffed.

John laughed. “Yeah, I know, everyone makes that face, but there’s more to P.E. than being a jock and doing press-ups. At A-Level it’s closer to biology, all how the body functions and recovers. It’s a good subject.”

The boy gave a nod. “You want to be a doctor.”

John blushed. “Well –”

“You’re used to people scoffing when they know that,” the boy said, his voice hitching. His eyes flicked over John’s uniform.

John braced himself for the sneer his well-worn clothes usually brought about.

The boy’s pale blue eyes softened, just a touch. “You get good grades, I’m sure you won’t have to worry.” He looked back at his planner.

John blinked. “Right. Yeah. You must be the same, though, right? A-Level Maths.”

The boy almost smiled. “I like numbers. They make sense.” He capped and uncapped his fountain pen. He had very long fingers, though the nails were bitten down to the quick, and the skin around them looked sore and picked-at.

The bell rang.

“Off you go,” Mr Young dismissed his form group “Keep it down, all of you. Oi, no shouting in the corridors!”

John picked up his bag, and stood, waiting for the boy who was taller than he had first seemed when folded under the desk. “Chemistry, then.”

“Sorry?” the boy blinked hurriedly.

“Chemistry,” John repeated. “We’ve got Chemistry, now.”

Another blank stare.

“In Room 202?” John felt like he was prodding at a piece of marble for all the response he was getting.

The boy suddenly looked relieved. “Of course. Of course… Yes.” He coughed, and when he spoke again his voice was a touch deeper, as if his voice was still breaking, or he was putting on a ‘macho’ tone on purpose. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

“No problem,” John smiled, and he felt rather proud of himself for his persistence. “So… what’s your name?”

“…Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

 

*

 

Mycroft was in the sitting room when Sherlock got back. He looked up sharply as Sherlock walked in. A look of sheer relief passed over his face when he saw Sherlock was neither beaten nor bruised.

“How was your day?”

Sherlock put his bag down, and shrugged. “Ordinary. Just a school day.” He pulled a folder out of his bag.

“That’s… good.” Mycroft gave a single nod, glancing at the family photo on the sideboard. Four figures grinned out of it, one of them in a baby-pink frock. He cleared his throat. “Will you be wanting any –”

“I’m going to start this,” Sherlock held his homework up. “I’ll get something in a bit.”

Mycroft didn’t argue.

Sherlock went up to his room, and dropped his homework on his bed.

He hung up his blazer and tie, and unbuttoned his shirt, balling up the cotton and lobbing it into a corner. The fitted white t-shirt followed, and Sherlock stood catching his breath for a moment, before hooking his fingers under the two sports bras he’d struggled in all day, and yanking them up and over his head, groaning at the pain of his ribcage being given room to expand.

He twisted his arms, and dropped the two bras with a sigh.

He grabbed a t-shirt and a hoody, pulling them on before deciding to wash his things straight away – he’d need the bras dry for tomorrow, after all.

Mycroft was in the kitchen when Sherlock went in, and started loading the machine. He could see what was going in, and his lips went thin.

“Whatever you’re going to say, you can keep it to yourself,” Sherlock sighed, his voice higher than it had been at school. His throat hurt from a day of concentrating on keeping it as low as he could.

“Even this?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock pressed the button to start the washing machine cycle, before looking up.

Mycroft was dangling a credit card between his thumb and forefinger.

Sherlock snatched it, and looked down at the small plastic rectangle.

“Just this once,” his brother said. “I won’t have you hurting yourself… if you really are serious about this.”

“I… am serious.”

“Then order what you need,” Mycroft said. “And make sure it’s delivered before Mummy and Father come home.”

Sherlock nodded, and shuffled back out of the kitchen in his oversized hoody, going upstairs like lightning, and opening his laptop, going to the websites he had saved, for if, or when, he was able to get what he wanted. He already had a wish-list on his favourite site, and added everything on it to the cart before typing in Mycroft’s card information and selecting priority shipping.

He sat back in his chair, and smiled at the ‘order confirmed’ screen.

He’d lied to Mycroft.

It hadn’t been an ordinary day.

It had been extraordinary.

Someone had spoken to him.

Not just spoken to him – had actively tried to befriend him. John Watson. The boy who wanted to be a doctor. The one who was doing A-Level P.E. He’d shown Sherlock to classes. They’d eaten their lunch (well, John had eaten, Sherlock had hidden squished-up bits of sandwich in his pockets until he could flush it down the toilet, later), and they’d even said ‘bye’ at the gates.

John Watson… he’d made Sherlock’s heart skip even as he slumped beside him. He was a ‘proper’ boy. As Sherlock liked to call the sort of boys who played sports and got bruises and had no trouble making friends and getting girls into bed. Not that Sherlock was interested in girls. That had been one of the confusions – how could Sherlock still like boys when he… was one? But he did. He did, and that was just the end of it. And the boys he liked tended to look a lot like John Watson.

Maybe John Watson liked boys, too. Maybe that’s why he’d been so overly friendly. That’d be…

Sherlock smiled, then caught sight of himself in the laptop as the screen went blank. A smiling, girlish face. High cheekbones. A skinny neck. A rise at his chest, where his hoody was clinging to his shape. Thin arms and hands, full lips, wavy hair… His mother called him _beautiful_.

His stomach contracted horribly.

He pulled his homework close, looking over his student information.

 

**Name: Sherlock Wendy Sophia Holmes**

**Age: 16**

**School: St Bartholomew’s School and Sixth Form College**

**Gender: F**

Sherlock turned back to his laptop, typing in the address for his school server. He bypassed the staff login easily, and left a program running in the background, working its way into the administrative system.

A soft ‘ping’ let him know he was in.

He swung his chair around, and searched for ‘Holmes’. Then selected his own file. And started correcting the information there.

 

**Name: Sherlock William Scott Holmes**

**Age: 16**

**School: St Bartholomew’s School and Sixth Form College**

**Gender: M**

He pressed ‘Enter’, and closed the program, feeling somewhere between sick and elated.

Still, there was school, tomorrow.

And John.

His new friend.

That was something, at least.

Sherlock had something.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains transphobic slurs.

By the end of October, John was 99% sure that Sherlock was gay. He hated to stereotype him, but there were just a few things that he did that were a bit… feminine. There was nothing John could exactly put his finger on, but there was just a slight… vibe. Sometimes Sherlock’s voice would warble on the side of soprano, until he caught it. It wasn’t quite ‘camp’, but it was… something.

Of course, the most telling thing was Sherlock’s utter disinterest in girls. He didn’t look at them, didn’t talk about them, didn’t even seem to know their names, though there were enough in his classes.

“Molly’s looking at you,” John muttered under his breath, one Chemistry lesson.

Sherlock shrugged, and hunched further down into his blazer, as if he could hide.

“She’s looking again,” John teased. “You’ve got a fan. You should ask her out.”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock muttered back, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

A little flutter had run through John’s stomach at that.

John knew he liked boys as well as girls, but he’d never acted on the former – he was well aware that he had enough to deal with with being poor, and struggling to get his homework done when he had to do it in bed, by torchlight, as his dad crashed through the door at 3am, his sister usually following. Being a doctor was his ticket out of there, and John was well aware his grades could slip at any moment.

But, even though he knew he couldn’t say anything, he did admit to himself that Sherlock was cute. Despite being an incredibly annoying bastard, at times.

“Are you eating that?” John looked at the sandwich Sherlock was picking bits off with his fingers.

“Yes,” Sherlock frowned, pouting. “Why?”

“Because it looks to me like you’re just shredding it. I haven’t seen any of it make it to your mouth, yet.”

Sherlock glared, then picked up the bread and took a dramatic, over-wide bite out of it.

“Urgh,” John winced, as Sherlock dropped the sandwich back down again, chewing and swallowing quickly. “You didn’t have to re-enact _Jaws_.”

Sherlock smiled, wiping a speck of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. “You did ask.”

“Not for that much detail!”

Sherlock laughed, and took his phone out, signalling his participation in the meal was over. John was tempted to nag him again, but thought better of it. Sherlock clearly had an issue with food, but now wasn’t the time to start giving him a lecture.

“So, your mum and dad still away?” he asked, instead.

“Uh,” Sherlock put his phone in his blazer pocket. “Yes. Mummy rang last night. They should be back this weekend.”

John had laughed the first time Sherlock said _mummy_ , but now he was used to it. “That’s good. You missed them?”

“Not in the slightest,” Sherlock stroked over his hair, looking suddenly nervous.

“Oh… don’t you get on with them?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

John sniffed. “You know I hate my dad, so it’s not like you can’t tell me stuff. You can tell me anything.”

A tiny flicker of something crossed Sherlock’s face.

“I know we’ve not known each other for long, like, but I mean it.” John leaned forward on the bench they were sharing.

Sherlock inhaled through his nose. “It’s not on even footing, John. I already know your mother has a new family, and your dad and sister drink. You haven’t had to tell me, I can read it in your uniform, in your sleep-deprived eyebags, in the slight smell that comes from the inside of your schoolbag. I observe it.”

John blinked. “But… how?”

Sherlock just looked up at the sky. His face was very smooth – John doubted he’d started shaving, yet. He was pretty, and different, and striking, and John’s heart fluttered slightly as the thought of touching his friend’s smooth, white skin.

He laced his fingers together, instead. “Ok, you don’t have to tell me. But I meant what I said – you can spill to me anytime. You’re a mate.”

Sherlock looked back at him. “Thank you, John.”

 

*

 

_Freak._

_She’s such a fucking lesbian – look at her arms! You been lifting weights, Sherlock?_

_Fucking hell, has she actually got a rolled-up sock stuffed down her knickers?_

_Hey, if you want a cock that badly, I’ll give you one. Get a feel of the real thing, bitch._

_Frigid slut._

_Freak! You can’t tell people things like that!_

_Shut up! You fucking tranny._

_Freak! Freak! FREAK._

Sherlock tore a strip of skin from beside his fingernail, biting it off, the taste of copper filling his mouth as he sucked on the wound.

He couldn’t tell John, of course he couldn’t.

It wasn’t just the whole trans thing. It was the deductions, too. Sherlock couldn’t explain them. How he saw what he saw. How he knew what he knew. He could explain it, if he chose to. But it made people feel vulnerable. It made people hate him. It was best to do just keep his head down for the next two years, get to uni, and start a new life.

He had been so relived to leave his last school. The problem was, you couldn’t re-invent yourself if everyone knew you from when you were small. They’d seen him growing up, wearing sundresses and having his long dark curls woven into plaits. So when Sherlock started trying to change… they noticed. Even if he still had long hair, and had to wear girls’ trousers, and didn’t wear makeup, and used a sports bra and t-shirt to flatten his chest, and lost weight so the curves of his hips would be less obvious…

They thought he was a girl. They always would.

“You need to take that binder off,” Mycroft said, without looking up from his laptop, as Sherlock came into the sitting room. “You’ve had it on all day.”

“I’ll do it later.”

“You’ll do it now,” Mycroft’s eyes flicked up. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock wanted to argue. But the truth was, he did feel a bit breathless, even if he did like his flat shape. And only Mycroft was here. He wasn’t about to call him ‘she’. He got up with a dramatic groan, and slumped up the stairs.

His phone beeped as he struggled out of the binder. The constricting vest never seemed to get easier to take it off, and Sherlock had been convinced he’d have to be cut out of his black one, once. He eventually yanked it off, and hung it on a hanger before checking his phone.

 

**You doing the chem hw? JW**

Sherlock blushed, taking a deep breath, enjoying the fullness of his lungs, smiling at the message. John was thinking about him. About Chemistry, too, yes, but about him. Wondering what Sherlock was doing. That never got old. It felt fizzy and sparkling every time John text first.

 

**About to start. SH**

**Q3 is a bitch. JW**

**Much like the man setting the questions. SH**

**Haha. Robinson is a right twat. JW**

Sherlock lay back on his bed. Their joint loathing of the Chemistry teacher was something that had cemented their friendship almost immediately.

 

**Have you solved it yet? SH**

**No, some bugger keeps texting me. JW**

**You started it. SH**

**You love it. JW**

Sherlock’s heart contracted horribly. He started writing a reply, then deleted it, thinking.

He _did_ like John. The initial crush he felt at the start had only grown, and Sherlock couldn’t help the soft, warm feelings that washed over him whenever John brushed against him, or they bumped into each other, or John did something that proved to Sherlock that true friends could exist, in this world.

He still wasn’t sure if John liked boys, or not.

But it hardly mattered.

Sherlock was a boy, but if John were to kiss him… To lean against him, or run a hand over his… He’d know. He’d know, and he’d be disgusted. Sherlock didn’t fit in any boxes. He wasn’t a girl. But he didn’t have the parts someone who liked boys would expect him to have. Who was going to want him?

 

**You ok? I was just winding you up. Sorry. JW**

Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself. He needed to get a grip, text back.

 

**I’m fine, I was just starting my homework. You’re right about Q3. SH**

**I’m sure you won’t struggle. JW**

**Probably not. SH**

**Maybe I should just copy off you tomorrow. JW**

**Be my guest. SH**

Sherlock sighed, putting his phone to one side as he leaned forward, and dragged his work over. His breasts brushed against the soft material of his top, making him wince before sitting back and making a start on the work, doing all the calculations in his head, not bothering to show his working.

He could afford the occasional A-.

 

*

 

“Sherlock! What have you _done_?” his mother shrieked.

It was Saturday morning. Sherlock and Mycroft’s parents had been home for about sixteen seconds.

Sherlock didn’t even get chance to speak.

“Your _hair_ ,” his mother wailed. “Oh, Sherlock – all the time I sat plaiting and brushing your beautiful hair… why have you done this?”

“I want it short,” he said.

“But it doesn’t suit you,” she insisted, putting her hands on her hips. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

“Jeans,” he looked down at himself.

“I meant that top – it’s far too…” she frowned, looking at his flat chest. “Sherlock, what in God’s name…”

“Why are you dressed like a boy?” her husband interrupted, getting straight to the point.

Sherlock would have given everything not to blush at that point, but he did. “Take a wild guess.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Mycroft came forward. “Sherlock… has been getting on very well at h… the new school.”

Sherlock clenched his fist at the avoided pronoun.

His mother put a hand to her mouth for an instant. “Don’t tell me you’ve been going to school dressed like that?”

“Of course I have.”

“But…” she looked bewildered, “you know what people must be saying? What they’ll think?”

“If they think anything, I haven’t heard it.”

“So, you’ve not told them you’re a girl?” his father snapped. “You’re deceiving your entire school?”

“I’m not deceiving anyone,” Sherlock said, his face feeling very hot.

“You’re cross-dressing, and you think you’re not deceiving anyone?”

“I am not cross-dressing,” Sherlock said, louder, his nose suddenly prickling as he realised he might cry. “I’m a boy. I’m wearing boys’ clothes.”

There was a nasty silence.

Mycroft touched Sherlock’s arm.

Their parents looked at each other.

“Sherlock, you… I know you think this is an answer to how you feel, but you’re very confused, my darling,” Mrs Holmes said carefully. “You can dress in a more… masculine fashion, and not actually _be_ a boy. You can like girls without being a boy.”

“I don’t like girls,” Sherlock sighed, but he might as well have been talking to the wall.

“Your mother’s right,” his father said, “you don’t have to be a transsexual to like having short hair. You’re our daughter – we know that. And we love you –”

“I’m a boy, I’m your son,” Sherlock said, tears escaping, now. “I’m not telling you this because I’m seeking attention, or… I just want you to know. I’ve always known. I’m not a girl. I can’t… not be myself, anymore.”

“Sherlock has had no trouble at school,” Mycroft said. “Sher… he has been doing well in classes, and getting on with the other students –”

“She’s been lying to the entire school!”

“I haven’t!” Sherlock almost shouted.

“Sherlock, this is not up for discussion,” his father pointed at him. “I won’t have this mentioned again. You can dress how you damn well please, but you’re not a boy. You’re my daughter, and I hope you come to your damn senses about that soon enough.”

Sherlock’s mother nodded. “If you feel like you need some sort of therapy to help you feel like yourself, again –”

Sherlock shook his head, wiping tears on his long sleeves.

“Fine.”

Mycroft gripped his arm again, as their parents walked into the sitting room, leaving their suitcases in the hallway.

Sherlock felt as though he might faint.

Mycroft half-dragged him back, to the small room beside the stairs – the one that they called the Music Room. He closed the door behind them, and helped Sherlock to sit on a high-backed chair, beside a music stand.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I knew they’d be angry, but… I thought… after my old school…I thought they’d realise…”

“They can’t see what’s in front of their eyes,” Mycroft handed him a hanky. “You’ve always been my brother.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, pressing the hanky into his face before stuffing it up his sleeve. “I don’t know what to do. I… I can’t pretend to be a girl. But they…”

“They might yet come around,” Mycroft said softly. “If not… there’s not long until you’re eighteen –”

“More than a year,” Sherlock said, thinking of twelve more periods. “And then I might have to get on a waiting list. I was counting on…”

“On going private?”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft looked at the ceiling. “I’ll just have to work harder, then, won’t I?”

Sherlock forced out a tiny laugh.

Mycroft patted his shoulder. “Don’t write them off just yet. They left a Sherlock with long hair and a silent pout behind. They’ve come back to this one, just starting to know his own confidence… They will get used to you.”

“I…” Sherlock sighed, not knowing how to say what he wanted.

“Stay hopeful, brother mine,” Mycroft said. “The world doesn’t end at the manor grounds.”

 

*

 

**I hate my parents. SH**

**Me too. Do you want to talk about it? JW**

**No. SH**

**Me neither. JW**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mention of periods.

It was terrible luck that the subject Sherlock liked the best was taught by the teacher he liked the least. Mr Robinson was old, stuck in his ways, and liked to set homework that would take longer to complete than an extra taught Chemistry lesson. His only saving grace was the fact he recognised Sherlock was academically gifted, and treated and taut him as such. And Sherlock filtered this down to John, who seemed to be benefiting greatly from them sitting together. They both did.

  
It was during a Chemistry lesson that Sherlock had one of the worst moments of the term.

  
It was December. The Christmas holidays were mere weeks away, and the lesson was heavy on revision for the exams they'd be having in January.

  
Sherlock was hunched over his desk, solving problems rapidly, pen skidding over the paper, fingertips on the calculator he wasn't using.

  
John was tapping at his own, beside him, his little huffs of breath as though he was under severe effort.

  
Sherlock wondered what John's effort-breaths sounded like. When he ran, in P.E., or when he... did other things. Sherlock shifted on the tall stool, and solved another equation.

  
Then felt a familiar ache throb through his abdomen.

  
Sherlock looked up, frowning slightly as he waited.

  
The ache came again, this time edged with pain, and a sense of urgency.

  
Oh, shit.

  
Sherlock capped his pen, and put his hand up.

  
Mr Robinson rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock?"

  
"May I go to the toilets please, sir?"

  
"Why didn't you go at break?"

  
"I... Didn't need to," Sherlock said, trying to look innocent.

  
"You should know better than that at your age. You'll just have to hold on until the bell." Robinson went back to his laptop.

  
Sherlock stared. He knew he'd be allowed to go if he was a girl. "But sir -"

  
"That's enough, Sherlock. You can wait."

  
"I really can't," Sherlock said, starting to sweat. If he leaked through his trousers...

  
Robinson sighed. "Go on, then. If you're going to wet yourself."

  
"Thank you," Sherlock jumped down, and snatched his bag up.

  
"Leave your bag here," Robison snapped. "You're going to empty your bladder, not eat your lunch. Go on!"

  
Sherlock had no choice but to hurry out of the room, leaving the supplies in his bag behind.

  
He crashed into the toilets, and locked himself in a cubicle before yanking his boxer-briefs down, and letting out a sob.  
Blood hadn't, thankfully, soaked through to his trousers, but his pants were bloody and damp. Sherlock grabbed a bunch of toilet paper, and squeezed the cotton of his underwear in a wodge of tissue, trying to soak up the wetness. And again, even as he felt blood drip into the toilet bowl beneath him.

  
He sat for a moment, trying to think. He had no pads. No machine in the boys' toilets. Nothing. He couldn't sit forever, Robinson would send someone to find him, and then they would all know.  
His only option was toilet paper.

  
Hating himself, and the entire world, Sherlock folded the tissue over and over into a rudimentary pad shape and thickness, before yanking up his underwear to trap it against his hateful body.

  
Then, after checking his silhouette in the mirror, Sherlock had to waddle back to class.

  
"You ok?" John whispered as Sherlock eased back into his chair.

  
"Fine," he lied, feeling the absorbent tissue press, too dry, against his labia, chaffing the soft skin. "Better for going."

  
"I bet." John wrote something down. He glanced up at their oblivious teacher, and Sherlock got a hint of John's aftershave, escaping from his shirt. John shaved, every third day or so, though he could have gotten away with longer. He probably liked doing it. Sherlock understood that. Mycroft had caught him trying it, once. It had felt lovely. John used a wet razor, and some own-brand cream, and he went with the grain, because he had sensitive skin. And chapped lips, sometimes, though it didn't detract from his handsomeness.

  
Sherlock itched to touch John's face, to feel the stubble growing through, to accept the jealousy he tried to keep at bay. John didn't have to worry about getting his period in class. He didn't have to struggle in and out of a binder twice a day. He didn't have to hurt his voice trying to keep it low, or avoid laughing because it was girly. Sherlock wanted what he had. The freedom of living. He wanted to touch John's jaw, press their flat chests together, let their hands explore. In Sherlock's dreams, they were both cisgender boys, and they slotted together like they were matching puzzle-pieces.

  
He hated waking up.

*

"Hey, are you free this weekend?"

  
Sherlock looked up from his phone. "Free?"

  
"Yeah. Do you want to do something? Your parents are back in France, right?"

  
"They are..." Sherlock lowered his hands. "I mean... Mycroft's with me. Not that he's with me, but he's... home."

  
"Well, d'you want to do something? There's the new leisure centre opened up, we could check it out."

  
Sherlock considered. "What... Ice skating?"

  
John smiled. "I was thinking the water park, actually. We can pretend like it's summer."

  
Sherlock's face twitched, and he swallowed. "Um. No, I... I don't really like pools. Swimming, I mean."

  
"Ok," John shrugged, not thinking much of it. "Ice skating, then. More seasonal, I guess. Can you skate?"

  
"I used to have lessons," Sherlock said, then blushed.

  
"Oh god, you'll be picking me off my arse then," John laughed. "Cool. So... Saturday? About 11?"

  
"Sounds great," Sherlock smiled, going even redder. He looked back at his phone.

  
_It's not a date_ , John told himself. _Even if it feels like one, it's not a date. It's just two friends going out. Of the house. Together. To avoid being lonely. Because they're friends._

  
He looked at Sherlock at the same instant that Sherlock looked at him. They both went scarlet, and turned away.

*

Ice Skating was the third, and final, hobby that Sherlock's mother had tried to get him interested in. First was, of course, ballet. Then gymnastics. Then skating. Sherlock had rejected each one in turn, hating how the costumes gave his body nowhere to hide, how feminine the dances were. Even if he was good at it, which he was, he couldn't tolerate the practice.

  
But he could probably tolerate it for John.  
Sherlock got out of the shower that evening, knotting the towel around his waist as he went over to the sinks to do his teeth. He wiped the steam away, sighing at the sight of his breasts, before getting his toothbrush.

  
A date with John...

  
It wasn't a date. Of course it wasn't. It was barely two friends hanging out. It was fine. But if it turned into a date... Not that it would...

  
Sherlock spat, and rinsed his mouth out. He looked at himself again.

  
Maybe that was why John wanted to go out. Maybe he thought Sherlock was a girl. He could have put the clues together. He was quite intelligent. Maybe John thought that if he got Sherlock alone, Sherlock would turn out to be a girl, after all.

  
Sherlock ran a hand down his throat, to his chest, touching, squeezing softly at his left breast.

  
Would John want to touch that?

  
He suddenly felt sick, and tore his hand away, shuddering. He pulled his pyjamas on quickly, hiding his body, and going quickly to his room, to bed.

*

"Size seven, please." Sherlock had never been more grateful for his height as he took the offered skates and sat down to lace them up. He watched John struggle with his own, and Mycroft's words from that morning popped back into his head.

" _Does John know?"_

  
_Sherlock looked up. "Um. No." He stirred his cereal. "He doesn't need to, either. Thanks for your concern."_

_  
Mycroft poured himself a tea. "You misunderstand me. I'm not asking if he needs to know. I'm asking if you want him to know."_

_  
"Why on earth would I want him to know?"_

  
" _Because he's your friend... Perhaps more than friend?"_

_  
"No," Sherlock said, rudely. "He's not gay."_

_  
"But you like him."_

_  
"That's irrelevant."_

_  
"Would you rather he found out by accident?" Mycroft lifted his cup._

_  
"He's not going to find out," Sherlock glared. "He's not. I'm seeing Dr Blume again on Friday. She thinks I can start hormones without mummy's permission. There's no need to tell John anything." Dr Blume was a wonderful backfire on Mr and Mrs Holmes' part - far from trying to 'cure' Sherlock of being transgender, she was helping him come to terms with his feelings, and was recommending he start hormone replacement therapy, and start taking testosterone._

  
" _So, if John does return your feelings -"_

_  
"I'm just going to have to ignore it, aren't I?" Sherlock's voice cracked. "He doesn't like me like that. He likes girls. And..." He looked up. "Mycroft, what if he thinks I'm a girl?"_

_  
"Then he's clearly blind."_

_  
"But... What if?"_

_  
"...has he used feminine pronouns for you? Treated you as though you're a girl?"_

_  
"I don't think so."_

  
" _Then I don't think you need to worry. But you do need to be mindful. If your friendship does turn to -"_

_  
"Oh, give it a rest, Mycroft. Nothing is going to happen."_

"Ready?" John wobbled upright. "Oh god. I'm not even on the ice."

  
"This is going to be interesting..." Sherlock laughed, clumping forward, pulling on fingerless gloves before stepping onto the rink. The familiar gliding feeling was easy to pick up, and Sherlock turned easily, watching John climb down, clinging to the rail with one hand.

  
"Ohhhhh fuck," he gripped harder. "Sort of regretting this now."

  
"Come on," Sherlock grinned, "let go, and just step like this..." He showed his friend what to do. "Don't stomp. Glide."

  
"Helps if you're a bit more graceful than me," John let go, and took a step, trying not to wobble. "Shitting hell."

  
"Ha," Sherlock skated off, doing a lap before coming back to John. "Are you scared?"

  
"Bit scared of falling on my arse," John said, taking another tentative step.  
Sherlock hesitated.

  
Then reached out, and took John's wrists in his gloved hands, pulling him forward. "Just glide. Move slowly, but surely."

  
"You had lessons, huh?" John looked down at their skates.

  
"Mm. Mummy liked me to have hobbies. I was never keen. But you never forget."

  
"What made you stop?"

  
"I hated the costumes," Sherlock smiled, and John looked up and laughed.

  
"God, what're you like?" He twisted their hands, so his fingers were wrapped around Sherlock's wrists.

  
They stared at each other.

  
"You've got skinny wrists," John said.

  
"Yeah..." Sherlock glanced at John's fingers, tight around his bones.

  
A flush of heat went through his body.

  
"This... This is ok, right?" John squeezed.

  
Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Mm-hm."

  
John swallowed, his tongue flicking out after, licking his lower lip.

  
Sherlock pressed his own lips together.

  
"Sherlock..."

  
He looked up.

  
"You're... really different, you know?"

  
Sherlock let go, pulling his hands from John's. "Sorry."

  
John's eyes went wide, and he looked shocked. "Oh god. Sherlock, I - I didn't mean to say I think you're-"

  
"It's ok," Sherlock said, bitterly. "I know I'm not... Normal."

  
"That's not what I meant," John insisted. "Just listen, will you?"

  
Sherlock looked at him.

  
"I meant you're different and I like it," John said. "Because you're fun, and clever, and you don't act like a cock like other lads. That's all I meant. I like being your mate, because you're you."

  
Sherlock felt his cheeks prickle. "Oh. That's... Thanks."

  
"You're welcome," John smiled, and reached for Sherlock's hands again. Sherlock gave them up, happily. "Now, you going to show me how to skate, or not?"

  
Sherlock laughed, pulling John along as he skated backwards, until they were both cold and tired, and they could sit next to each other - maybe a little closer than other friends might - and drink hot chocolate in a comfortable silence.


	4. Chapter 4

"What do you mean 'hormone therapy'?" Mrs Holmes gripped her chair. "You mean - like giving her extra... Women's hormones?"

"No," Dr Blume said patiently. "Sherlock is, by his diagnosis and mine, a transgender boy. He has already started living as a boy in his everyday life. He uses masculine pronouns, and uses a binder to present a masculine appearance. Sherlock is not living as a girl, and he doesn't identify as one."

"My daughter is not some - some science experiment for you doctors," Mrs Holmes swelled up with emotion. "She needs help, not encouragement."

"Mummy, I have to do this," Sherlock said, his voice very small, but the two women in the room did stop and look at him. "I'm seventeen, now. I need to start taking testosterone. I need to get rid of... I need top surgery. I can't keep... doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Living when I hate myself so much," Sherlock looked up, his eyes shining. "Mummy... I'm a boy. I'm a boy who has periods. Who has breasts. Who doesn't have... what he should. I know you don't like it. I know. But you can't like it less than I like living with a body that doesn't look like it should."

Sherlock's mother's face fell. "But... But Sherlock, you've always been a little different, but that doesn't mean you have to change who you are."

"I'm not," Sherlock said. "I'm making me what I should be."

  
*

  
John stepped out of the showers, wrapping the towel around himself as he ruffled his hair with the second one.

"Alright, Watson, watch it, you're dripping," one of the lads snatched his bag out of the way. "d'you have to?"

"You stink," John took the towel off his head. "Showers are there for a reason."

"Aye, you just want to be squeaky clean for your girlfriend, don't you?"

John frowned, not getting it.

"Sherlock?"

"Oh, hilarious," John rolled his eyes as he unzipped his bag. "Very witty."

"You have to admit though," someone else chimed in, "he is a bit feminine. Like... He's obviously gay, but there's gay and there's that. He's like... Really girly."

"What do you care?" John pulled his pants and jeans on. "He's not hurting you, is he?"

"No, but it's weird, isn't it?"

"No, it's not," John sighed. He yanked his t-shirt over his damp hair. "It's just his personality, stop being a wanker about it."

"You fucking fancy him, you do."

"Oh no, you caught me," John drawled, counting on sarcasm to hide his jolt of fear. "I forgot you can't be mates with someone without wanting to get in their pants. Must be why you've got no friends, Phil."

Everyone jeered, laughing at the target of John's jibe as he pulled his socks and trainers on.

If they realised he did like Sherlock, it could all go wrong. It wasn't that he didn't agree with them - he was sure Sherlock was gay, but he wasn't sure Sherlock liked him back. There'd been a few moments - ice skating, and when they gave each other books for Christmas, and Sherlock's birthday, where he'd had John over for a pizza, and they'd gradually scooted closer together until there was only a hair's breadth between their arms, and Sherlock's breathing went all raggedy, and he wouldn't look John in the eye.

But they hadn't kissed. Or even really held hands. Every time John thought they might, Sherlock would go still and rigid and look terrified. It wasn't nerves. It was genuine fear. And John didn't want to push him anywhere, or into anything.

He left the rest of the rugby team, and walked out into the crisp January air, his breath misting in front of his mouth, making his lips burn. He pulled his scarf up.

The gas was off at home. Which meant no hot water, which meant no central heating. His dad and his sister's solution to this was to go out and get too drunk to notice.

John's solution was to shower at school, and head to Sherlock's house. A pattern he'd been following for a couple of weeks, to Sherlock's apparent delight, though John had yet to exchange more than a quick 'hello' to Sherlock's mum or dad before he was dragged up the stairs.

He parked his bike up at the side of the house, and rang the bell.

Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, answered it. "John, good evening. Had a good day?" He stood in the doorway, which was odd, because usually he let John straight in.

"Um, yes, thanks," John forced a smile. "Is Sherlock in?"

"Actually, he's out with our mother," Mycroft said, looking uneasy. "Did he not mention?"

"No, we didn't have any lessons together, today," John said, feeling rather stupid. "Ok, not to worry..."

"I'm sure he won't be long, if you want to wait?"

"It's ok, I'll just go home and text him later," John said. "Thanks, Mycroft."

The eldest Holmes brother nodded, and closed the door as John got back on his bike.

He cycled home, feeling rather irritated that Sherlock had a life outside of him, then feeling irritated at himself for thinking that. He didn't own Sherlock. And his friend did seem to have a lot of doctor's appointments. It wasn't unusual. Even if John wasn't entirely sure what they were for.

Pushing the nagging worry to one side, John let himself into the family flat, carrying his bike up the stairs and straight into his bedroom, where no one could smash it or steal it. He locked the door for good measure, and promptly got under his duvet, fully dressed, only stopping to kick his shoes off. He'd been counting on scrounging a meal at Sherlock's house, but no chance of that, now.

John's bed was so cold it felt damp. He stuck his head under the covers and breathed hard, counting on his breath and body heat to warm up the space.

It was a very long time before he fell asleep.

  
*

  
"You look cheery," John grunted as he slumped into his chair.

Sherlock smiled. "I suppose I am. Mycroft said you called for me, last night?"

"He said you were out." John put his forehead on his arms, on the desk. "I figured I'd best just go home."

"Oh..." Sherlock watched his friend close his eyes. He looked ruffled and exhausted. He'd slept in his clothes, and washed in cold water, that morning. Broken sleep.

Sherlock's heart ached. He'd been feeling great, that morning. He'd had his first testosterone jab yesterday, at the GP, and he'd checked his face in the mirror as if he'd've sprouted a full beard overnight. Obviously, not, but he felt good.

He wished he could tell John about it.

He knew John had a difficult home life. He knew John had probably slept in his clothes because the heating was off. In Sherlock's daydreams, he thought about the two of them growing up, leaving home, getting a flat or something, together. Of course, in Sherlock's imagination they were madly in love, Sherlock had had surgery and John remained oblivious.

Which couldn't happen, could it?

Unless they never had sex.

No, Sherlock didn't feel like that. He did want to do... stuff. But how, was another matter. His clicks around the internet hadn't brought up much more than worrying fetishisation. He didn't like the idea of a lot of the things he saw. And he hated the feeling of getting wet when he was aroused... It made the rare times he did masturbate less enjoyable than he'd like.

"You ok?" John opened one eye. "You've spaced out, a bit."

"Sorry," Sherlock shook himself. "Just thinking... Erm... D'you want to stay over, Friday? You said you wanted to watch that film that's on the movie channel."

John stared, a blush starting on his cheeks. "Sleep over, you mean?"

"Yes. We have a couple of spare rooms... We could both get the car tomorrow after school... If you wanted," he shrugged, praying to whatever gods were listening that John would say yes.

"That'd be really nice," John smiled, rubbing his chin. "Yeah, let's do it."

Sherlock's heart thumped. "Ok. I'll tell Mummy. Just bring... Pyjamas, and clothes... You can use our bathroom stuff."

"Thanks," John smiled, and lifted his head up. "This'll be great. Stopping at Holmes Manor, get me."

"It's just a house," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"And you, wandering around in your dressing gown and smoking jacket."

"I don't smoke in the house," Sherlock grinned, then the smile dropped as he realised.

He normally took his binder off as soon as possible. If John stopped over, he'd have to hide his figure, somehow. Maybe two t-shirts and a hoody would be OK. If John didn't look too close, and they didn't touch.

"It'll be great," John beamed. "Then on Saturday, let's go out on a bike ride. We can take the canal path out to the pit tops, take some sandwiches?"

Sherlock had to smile. "That... sounds delightfully 1950s."

"Enid Blyton special, yeah?"

"Of course. Without the inappropriately named aunts and uncles."

"Oh god."

  
*

  
"You absolutely cannot call me 'she'," Sherlock threatened. "And you can't say anything about me before I started transitioning. And you can't let him see any photos. And you can't -"

"You should just tell him," Mycroft sighed. "Mummy and Father will be out, so you don't need to worry about them."

"I'm not telling him."

"What if this weekend takes a... turn?"

"Then..." Sherlock flapped his arms by his sides. "I don't know. Maybe I should just cancel. I'm already worried about him seeing me without my binder on."

"Don't be," Mycroft said. "He won't be looking at your chest. And you can wear a jumper. You don't have to closet yourself away, Sherlock. Isn't he your friend?"

"Yes - but I'm not telling him. I can't just... What if he hates me? What if he thinks I've been lying to him? I've not."

"You've not," Mycroft agreed. "But if he wants to pursue a relationship with you -"

"He won't. Especially not if I tell him. He - he likes girls. I'm sure of it. And even if he was going to make an exception, I don't have what boys should, and he's not going to want someone who's..." Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I don't want to talk about this, anymore."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft softly. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm going to get hurt whatever," Sherlock gulped. "I like him. And he's never going to like me, because I'm never going to be what he wants."

Mycroft got up, and took Sherlock into his arms.

Sherlock arched his back, so his soft chest wouldn't touch Mycroft's flat one. He pressed his forehead against his brother's chest, and tried to steady his breathing.

Boys don't cry. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Brief mention of self-injury. Self-hatred, and dysphoria.
> 
> No prizes for guessing which movie John and Sherlock watch!

John put his bike on the new rack on the back of Sherlock’s driver’s car, tugging on it to check it was secure before following his friend onto the backseat.

“Christ, I hope that doesn’t fall off.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock looked up from his phone. “Relax.”

“I’ll try.” John clipped his seatbelt on, and the car pulled away. A car driven by staff. So posh it was like from another world. “So, how come your parents are away, again? They’re never in.”

“Mummy’s a lecturer,” Sherlock put his phone away. “And Father does speeches, too. They tend to get booked as a package deal. Mummy used to work at a university before she had my brother and me. Now she tours, teaching.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You don’t have to lie, John," Sherlock smiled, and John's heart swooped.

They drove through town, and out into the country, where the houses got larger, and further apart. There were fields dotted with patches of woodland, and the old pit top, where john had suggested they cycle to, in the distance. The sky was dark grey with winter, and the air misted against the windows as it met their breath.

They didn’t speak much, just stared out of the car windows, occasionally glancing at one another, giving tiny smiles.

“So… you still want to watch this film?” John asked, not knowing what else to say when he was already tense with the thought of sleeping under the same roof as the boy he liked so much. Too much.

“Sure,” Sherlock shrugged. “We can order food in… Mycroft’s not exactly a cook.”

“He seems pretty cool, your brother.”

“Mm,” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “He wasn’t always. He’s… been ok, lately. With me moving school… he was a big help convincing our parents.”

John nodded. “Why _did_ you move schools? Not that I’m complaining,” he laughed, it coming out slightly high-pitched.

Sherlock blushed. “I… had a bit of trouble, at my last school.”

“Bullies?”

“Mm.”

John made a fist. “Tell you what, if I’d been there…”

“You’d punch them? Don’t be dramatic,” Sherlock poked him in the arm. “It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d’ve noticed, anyway.”

“How so?”

Sherlock picked a bit of skin off his thumb.

“Stop picking yourself,” John gently pushed his hands apart. “It’ll get infected.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and John realised he hadn’t answered the bullying question. Maybe he couldn’t. That was ok.

They got to the house, John’s bike still firmly attached to the back of the car, and Sherlock showed John to his room.

“This is a bit small,” Sherlock held the door open, hunching back as John passed, as if he was afraid of touching, “but the other spare bedroom is on the top floor, and I thought if you needed something in the night…”

“Thanks,” John dropped his bag on the floor. “And it’s next to you!” He smiled, then felt himself go red.

Sherlock did, too. He cleared his throat. “Right, well… there’s a sink in here, but the bathroom… you know where that is…” he looked at John’s bag. “I’ll let you get changed.”

“It’s ok,” John loosened his tie, and pulled it over his head. “You can stay, I know you’re not a perv.”

“I want to get my jeans on, too,” Sherlock said. “I’ll just…” he bit his lip as he looked at John again, and a thrill of hope ran through John’s bones.

“Sherlock, you know I –”

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said, leaping out of the door, almost slamming it behind him as he went into his own.

John’s heart was hammering.

Sherlock liked him.

 

*

 

Sherlock _hated_ this.

He turned sideways in the mirror, squinting at his chest, trying to see if the baggy hoody hid his breasts well enough. He had smallish breasts as it was, but not small enough to pass for flat without layers. He stuck his lip out at his reflection. Was that a curve, or just how the fabric fell? Oh god, this was a nightmare. He should just put his binder back on and be done with it.

No, he chastised himself. He’d had it on for nearly ten hours as it was. It needed to come off.

He hunched his shoulders, seeing if that looked any better, but he just looked like he had back problems.

_Knock, knock_

“Sherlock, can I come in?”

It was now, or never.

Sherlock opened the door. “Hey, yeah, come in,” he held his breath as John walked past him, oblivious, not a glance down. Why would he look? He had no reason to look.

John flopped down on Sherlock’s bed, his t-shirt riding up as he did so, exposing a strip of red elastic, and sun-kissed skin. “Do you know what you want to eat?”

 _Fuck, yes._ “Erm, there’s a great Chinese food place we call up a lot,” Sherlock said, dithering, standing still. “Shall I ask for a selection? You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

“Not that I know of,” John propped himself up on his elbows. “Sherlock, aren’t you hot, wearing that? It’s hot in here.”

“I’m ok,” Sherlock lied. “I’m used to it. I’ll turn the heating down a bit, if you like.”

“Huh, I guess my house is cooler than yours…” John pulled a face before sitting up. “Shall we ring now? I think my stomach is eating itself.”

They ordered food, and decided to use the TV in the lounge to watch whatever superhero movie it was John was keen to see. Sherlock could barely concentrate as he got plates and cutlery out, putting them on the coffee table for when the food arrived. He was convinced John could see right through his hoody and two t-shirts, and every time John came close, Sherlock tensed as if his breasts were about to make some sort of appearance and out him without his consent.

Mycroft arrived home almost at the same time as the delivery driver, so he was able to pay, and greet the teenagers hanging about in the kitchen at the same time.

“John, your bike is in the hall – it’s going to rain tonight, so I had someone bring it in.” He put the paper bags down on the counter.

“Oh, thanks,” John nodded, going to take a bag by the handles. “Did you want some food, Mycroft?”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who screamed _NO_ with his eyes.

“I’m fine, thank you, John. Have a good evening, both of you.” He gave Sherlock a look, which Sherlock couldn’t quite interpret.

The boys took the food into the lounge, plating up their own meals before switching the TV on, and selecting the right movie from the pre-recorded ones the box had chosen by itself. John grinned as the film started playing, the two of them sat on the floor, backs to the sofa, cushions under them as they balanced plates on their knees.

Sherlock didn’t think much to the start – he didn’t like films that relied on his already scant knowledge of world history, and seemed to have a great deal of references that went over his head. He concentrated on his food, finishing well before John, who was distracted by the soldiers running about onscreen (or maybe it was the glamorous female lead), and thanked goodness for the dark room hiding his body further from his friend.

But then…

The film’s hero was suddenly different.

Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention to how it happened, but the skinny young man who’d been running around so far was now a superhero. He was muscular, and tall, and he was utterly transformed. Sherlock gaped at the image.

John cleared his throat, and shifted. “Wow. Shit.”

“Yeah…” Sherlock glanced at him. John looked a bit flustered.

“Ha… I could do with one of those,” John grinned, ruffling the back of his head.

“What – the machine?” Sherlock nodded at the device the hero was staggering out of. “Or the man?”

 _Oh, god_. _Wrong question_. _Why did I ask that -_

John’s ears went red. “Um… either is fine. Yeah.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yeah… Yeah, s-same.” He looked slightly wistfully at the hero, cursing fiction for putting a film in front of his eyes where a boy was given the body he’d always wanted. So bloody unfair. But – wait. John said _either_?

John was looking at him. Sherlock could feel it.

He glanced over, giving his friend a tiny smile.

John returned it.

The room seemed very close, and hot, and still, all of a sudden.

“Ok,” Sherlock licked his lower lip. “But what if you had to choose between the machine and – her,” he pointed at the screen at the leading lady, all lipstick and curls.

John took a deep breath, before answering. “I told you,” he said, “either is fine.”

Sherlock’s stomach clenched around the food inside it, and a sweat broke out on his back.

 _John likes boys. John likes girls. John likes boys_ and _girls. John likes both. John’s bi. Oh my god._

Sherlock had to look back at the screen, he was in danger of bursting into laughter, or maybe a scream, at any moment. His heart was pounding in his ears, and black was throbbing at the edges of his vision as he dared not hope for anything more than this half-confession from the boy he wanted so badly, beside him.

John let out a gust of breath, like he’d been holding it. His hand shifted on the carpet, a centimetre towards Sherlock’s.

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip as he mirrored the action, moving his own hand towards John.

It took almost fifteen minutes for their pinky fingers to touch.

Sherlock flinched when they did, his hand shaking as John gently looped his own finger over, holding Sherlock’s in a grip that felt warm and possessive and sent glorious sparks of fearsome delight up Sherlock’s arm and all over him.

John hummed, or swallowed, and moved again, this time with purpose, swallowing Sherlock’s hand with his own, threading his fingers inbetween, lacing them together like knots holding a ship to the marina walls in a storm.

Sherlock daren’t even look.

John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock didn’t remember anything else that happened in the film. All he could think about was the steady stroke of John’s thumb over his skin, the warmth coming from him, and the dread that this had already gone too far.

 

*

 

It was an awkward goodnight at their doors, afterwards, but Sherlock had dreaded the thought of John moving in for a kiss – god, he wouldn’t have had it in him to resist – and had fled into his room before John could get the chance.

He huddled in bed, touching at the hand John had held, trying to sort out the mess of feelings in his brain and chest.

John liked boys. John liked _Sherlock_. You didn’t hold someone’s hand like that unless you liked them, right?

But John liked Sherlock as a boy.

And people who fancied boys usually liked the boys they fancied to have a penis.

Sherlock liked boys, and he liked boys to have a penis, why should anyone else be different?

Especially John.

Oh god.

Sherlock put his pillow over his head in distress.

John was going to want to hold hands again, tomorrow. He was going to want to kiss. He might want to be Sherlock’s boyfriend.

Sherlock pressed the pillow into his face, and waited for tears to come.

But, somehow they didn’t.

And that was worse than sobbing, somehow.

 

*

 

“John,” Sherlock said the next morning, as they buttered toast beside each other. “I… have to tell you something.”

John looked up sharply. “Oh god. Is it about last night? I… I know you ran to your room – Sherlock, did I make you uncomfortable? I’m so sorry.”

“No, that’s not it,” Sherlock held a hand up, grateful for his binder, back on again now it was morning. “I swear.”

“Then…” John’s eyes lit up with hope. “Did you want to…”

“It’s not really about last night as such,” Sherlock said. “It’s more… what… could… happen.” He looked at his cup of tea, and wished he could burst into flames to avoid this.

John looked at him. “You… don’t want it to happen again?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Sherlock glanced up. “I…”

“Good morning, boys,” Mycroft thundered into the kitchen, and Sherlock glared daggers at him. “Did you both sleep well?”

They grunted in annoyance, and Mycroft looked up from his phone, apparently realising he’d interrupted something. “Ah.”

Sherlock shot John an apologetic look. “Still fancy that bike ride?”

“Sure,” John gave Sherlock such a trusting smile, that Sherlock wanted to sob.

He was going to make sure John didn’t get hurt, and there was only one way to do that.

They packed a picnic (well, shop-bought sandwiches and several packets of crisps each), and bundled up against the early February cold before setting off.

They left puffs of steamy dragon-breath behind them as they pedalled, Sherlock struggling more than he’d anticipated with his binder restricting his breathing. John had to slow down and wait for him a couple of times.

But at least they didn’t have to speak.

Eventually, Sherlock’s luck ran out, and they got to the pit top, where the path levelled off and the picnic benches sat, warmed in the sun.

“Uh,” Sherlock put a hand to his chest as he pulled his helmet off. “Ow.”

“You’ve got chest pains?” John frowned, the future-doctor in him jumping to conclusions.

“I’m just unfit,” Sherlock lied, putting his bag on the picnic table, and climbing up after it, his trainers on the seat bit. John did the same, Sherlock’s rucksack like a barrier between them.

“Good view.”

“It is,” Sherlock looked at John, and they both cringed at the inferred cheesiness of the line. Then smiles dropped, as the unfinished conversation over breakfast loomed behind them.

John pressed his hands together, thinking, then shoved Sherlock’s bag out of the way, to sit closer. “Sherlock, last night… that’s the first time I’ve done something like that? If you felt like you couldn’t say ‘no’… I’m really sorry.”

“I could have said ‘no’, but I did want to… try it,” Sherlock said. It felt much easier to talk, here on this empty hillside, than inside the house. “I liked it. It was my first time holding hands with anyone.”

John blinked in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Mm.” Sherlock nodded. “Sorry.”

“God, don’t apologise. I just… you’re… so it’s surprising.”

 _If you saw me last year, you’d be even more surprised_ , Sherlock thought, sadly. “But… John…”

“Uh oh,” John said, “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

 _No, you’re not_. “John… I – I like you. But… but I don’t think we –”

“Sherlock, just wait,” John said, his eyes shining, for a moment. “Just…” he reached out, and touched the soft curls at the back of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, relishing in the feel of John’s fingers through his hair. He opened them just in time to see John’s face close – too close – to his own, and then his mouth was…

Oh…

It was like drowning. John’s lips against his, in Sherlock’s first kiss, the moment he’d wanted so badly to belong to him and John, as he got what he wanted in the most bittersweet moment that tasted so dreadfully of defeat.

Sherlock put a hand on John’s chest, and pushed him away.

John didn’t resist, sitting back, letting Sherlock’s fingers splay on his coat. “No?”

Sherlock sniffed. “You… don’t want to be with me.”

“Yeah, I do,” John forced a laugh. “I really do.”

“You don’t know –”

“If you’re worried about school, we can keep it secret,” John said. “I’d never tell your secrets, Sherlock, I promise.”

 _I trust you._ “I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“No, I – I’m sorry.”

John frowned, and Sherlock could see the hurt, clear on his face. “Sherlock, what is it? Don’t you like me?”

“I…”

_Lie._

“I don’t,” Sherlock said. “I liked holding hands, but I like you just as a friend. I’m sorry.”

John looked crestfallen. “Oh… and I kissed you. Shit.”

“Don’t you say sorry,” Sherlock croaked out. “Please.”

“Right,” John looked down at his hands. “So… you just want to be friends?”

“Yes,” Sherlock looked up. “God, yes, John… I don’t want to stop being friends with you. You’re my… best friend.”

John forced a smile. “You’re mine, too. I’m sorry if I’ve made things weird.”

“You haven’t,” Sherlock said. “I promise. It’s… me. I’m not…right for you.”

“I don’t quite believe that,” John said. But he reached for his bag, anyway. “Let’s get this eaten, then. It’s a long ride back.”

 

*

 

When John went home that night, waving with a fake cheeriness at the end of the drive, Sherlock felt as though he might be sick. He waved until John disappeared from view, and then went inside.

He went upstairs to the bathroom, and stared at himself in the mirror.

He took off his jumper. His t-shirt. His vest. He struggled out of his binder.

He gave himself a good stare, looking at the curves and dips of his body, at the soft bumps and fat deposits and nipples that were too large. His waist curved, hips soft, the curls between his legs framing nothing but shame and emptiness.

He was disgusting.

Sherlock reached up a hand, and slapped himself, hard.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains: Self hatred, references to periods, masturbation, references to self-harm, and drug use.

John kept replaying that weekend over in his head. It had been like flipping a coin, things had changed so fast.

One moment they’d been holding hands, watching Steve Rogers beat up bad guys. The next, Sherlock was almost in tears, saying he just wanted to be friends.

Where did it all go wrong?

John, naturally, blamed himself for the whole thing. He had kissed Sherlock without his permission, and Sherlock had probably been too afraid to take his hand away during the film. John was a terrible friend.

That’s what he told himself.

When Sherlock slumped into his chair beside him every morning looking tired and more irritable, John thought it must be his fault. When Sherlock suddenly looked unkempt – his hair unbrushed and scruff on his chin – John thought he must be massively upset over what had happened.

Maybe even depressed.

It was probably better for John to stay away from him.

So, their after-school walks and meetings and break-ins to the science labs began to dwindle, as John forced himself to go for runs he didn’t care for, or to try and tidy the flat, or do almost anything so he was too busy to hang out.

It was only once they’d spent a whole week barely speaking that John realised – Sherlock hadn’t asked where he was.

 

*

 

John was avoiding him.

Sherlock could hardly blame him, for that. He’d rejected him romantically, and clearly he wasn’t interested in being just friends. That was fine. Sherlock was better off alone.

Alone would protect him.

 

*

 

**Three Months Later**

Sherlock flumped down onto the sofa, folding his arms around himself, tucking his fingers into the sleeves of his hoody. His unwashed (and starting to smell like it) hoody.

His parents glanced at one another.

Sherlock drew his knees up, and stared at the television, watching the news.

Disaster. Death. Disaster. Doom.

Standard.

Sherlock rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand. It was sore. He’d grown a sort of fluffy down on his chin, moreso in the last week, and he’d shaved it off almost instantly. Bum-fluff was worse than no facial hair.

He blinked, slowly, at the screen.

“Sherlock…” his mother said gently. “Would you like me to run you a bath? I bought some –” she hesitated, “some bath stuff that’s supposed to be good for muscle pain.”

“It’s ‘For Men’,” Sherlock said. “I saw it in the bathroom.”

She nodded. “So, would you like me to –”

“No.”

She looked pained, and glanced at her husband, who sat chewing his lip. He cleared his throat.

“Sherlock… I know things have been a bit… We haven’t been as there for you as we ought to have been, but… We’re worried about you.”

Sherlock slowly looked over at them both. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“That’s not what I meant –”

“I think I’ll run myself that bath,” Sherlock stood. “Maybe I’ll drown in it and you won’t have to sit feeling sorry for me, anymore.” He slammed the door, and heard his mother start to cry.

He felt a flash of satisfaction.

Then guilt.

He grit his teeth as he stomped up the stairs. He knew it was the testosterone making him ruder and more antisocial than usual, but it wasn’t just that.

It was John.

Or, it was being around John. And not being around John. It was all too confusing.

It was better to be away from him.

It was better to be alone.

Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom, and twisted the taps, dumping half a bottle of ‘For Men’ bath bubbles under the thundering water. He might have felt a touch of gratitude to his mother for her choice of product for him, but he chose not to think about it, stepping out of his trousers and pants instead, tearing the used sanitary pad from the cotton and stuffing it into the bin, hidden in toilet paper.

He pulled off his tops, giving the hoody a sniff before curling his lip and lobbing the sweater into the laundry basket. He gave himself a glance in the mirror.

Three months on ‘T’, as they called it on the forums, and Sherlock felt he looked more or less the same. Yes, his beard had started to grow, a little bit, but that was it. His face was still finely structured, and his voice wasn’t breaking. He did have acne on the tops of his shoulders, though, which he would have happily done without.

And then there were other new marks.

The straight lines on the sides of his breasts, where he cut.

The bruises on his thighs, where he hit.

The mirror went misty, and Sherlock turned the taps off, checking the temperature before climbing in, resenting how much the warm water did seem to help his aching uterus. He sank down to his neck, and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the water soothe him.

He could be anything, in the water.

It was nice, not to feel his own body.

Sherlock rested for a moment, inhaling the menthol smell, then moved his hand up, over his concave stomach, touching at his hip-bones. He liked those. Those could stay. Then lower, where the water lifted and curled his public hair. He didn’t dwell as he touched further, parting the lips of his labia, feeling the only result of his hormones that he was pleased with.

He smirked, touching over what he had decided to refer to as his cock, feeling it harden under his fingers. He adjusted his position in the bath, pinching the erect shaft between finger and thumb, running a touch over the swollen and sensitive head, enjoying the warm, pleasurable feeling. He’d never really masturbated much before, but now his body was changing… some things were to his liking.

He closed his eyes again, allowing his imagination to take over as he stroked and pulled and rubbed at himself, the period-pain aches dispelling with every moment.

_John… John kissing me. The taste of fog and sweat… His hand on the back of my head._

_In bed, or on the floor, John kissing me, his hands on my arms, telling me how much he wants me…_

_John grinding his cock on me, GOD_

_John sliding his hand down under my jeans, under my pants…_

Sherlock opened his eyes, and took his hand away, panting.

“Uh…” he looked away, trying to shake off the nausea that had suddenly gripped him. His stomach rolled, and he had to swallow hard.

It didn’t matter what Sherlock thought of his own anatomy. If John put his hand down there, he’d feel nothing except an engorged clitoris, due to Sherlock’s testosterone levels.

Sherlock dunked his head under the water, and came up, covered in bubbles, water dripping over the edges of the tub.

He needed a distraction.

 

*

 

“You looking for something, mate?”

Sherlock looked up. He’d been expecting to walk further than this to be approached. “Why, do you have something?” he tilted his head to one side, the hood on his head obscuring his face.

“Got most things for the right price. Except girls, ha! You want a score? No freebase, though.”

Sherlock pulled a twenty pound note from his pocket, and held it up. He hoped it was enough. It wasn’t the sort of thing you overheard at school. It was all rumours – drugs got dealt on Smith Row, everyone knew that. But what they were selling was a mystery. Sherlock didn’t know a lot about drugs, except that some of them were designed to make you feel good, or stop you worrying.

The man nodded, and took the twenty, and replaced it with a tiny plastic packet, the powder inside looking like snow.

Sherlock had no idea what it was. Was it edible? Injectable? He looked at it, then back at the man. “What do I do with it?”

The man looked up, sharply. “You’ve not done it before? Shit, take your money back, kid, I’m not -”

“I want to try it,” Sherlock put the packet in his hoody pocket. “Just tell me how.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

The man sighed. “That’s going up your nose, make. Smoking it’ll just burn it off, it’s a processed powder. That’s two lines worth, so do half the bag, and for fucksake, you didn’t hear it from me.”

Sherlock thanked him, and left, the dingy street getting dingier as the drizzle started.

Once home, Sherlock emptied half the bag onto his desk-top, arranging it into a line with his school ruler. He tore a page from his planner to make a tube, and stuck it in his nose before leaning down, and breathing in, hard.

He came to, about two hours later, flat on his back on the floor, a feeling of euphoria slowly dripping out of his body.

It was as though he could finally think.

His mind was clear.

He didn’t hate himself, because he couldn’t feel himself.

But he could _think_.

Sherlock hid the rest of the drug in his sock drawer, and opened his laptop. He didn’t feel like laying down, or sleeping, anymore. He had research to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **********
> 
> WARNINGS FOR SELF HARM AND DRUG USE
> 
> Cannot overstate the warning for this one, do not put yourself at risk by reading if this is at all triggering to you. 
> 
> **********

Sherlock was the same, and not the same. Some days (the days John liked the best), he was happy and chatty, and like his old self. He offered sniping deductions about the teachers’ love-lives, and he and John went back to his house, hanging out like they used to, teasing Mycroft when he was caught taking cake out of the kitchen without permission.

Other days, Sherlock was twitchy, and distracted, and snappish. He told John off, and forgot what he’d just said, and checked his phone every ten minutes (to the point where he got it confiscated, and he had to steal it back).

The worst days were what John privately called _The Slump Days_. They were the days Sherlock sometimes didn’t come to school at all. If he did, he lounged across the desk like he’d melted, barely speaking, eyes glazed, hair unwashed. Those days made John angry, though he wasn’t sure why. There was no real pattern to Sherlock’s moods, it seemed, though sometimes his happier days seemed to come a day or so after he’d been for one of his many doctor’s appointments.

John didn’t know how he could help his friend, with whatever troubles he seemed to have, without making it seem like he was still trying to get into his pants. He still liked Sherlock, as more than a friend, he knew that, but he didn’t want to put the young man into a position where he’d rather not be around him at all. And now their friendship was (sometimes) back to how it had been, John was consciously afraid of ruining it. Being without Sherlock at all would be so much worse than just having him close by as a friend.

 

*

 

Losing John completely would be so much worse than just keeping him as a friend.

Even though it hurt.

Even though it made Sherlock want to sob and scream, he couldn’t bear to keep John at arm’s length. He wished so hard John would pull him close, physically close, and hold him. Sherlock hadn’t hugged anyone – not even his mother, or Mycroft – for months. He simply couldn’t stand how his body felt, and looked.

Five months of testosterone treatment had changed Sherlock’s body. He now had a very fine dusting of chest-hair, that gave his breasts a fluffy appearance. His cock had swollen up larger, which he very much approved of, but he still found it difficult to touch and wash himself for any great length of time. His beard grew in patchy, like Mycroft’s, and he had to shave it off once a week, especially as although the hairs were mostly black, a lot were ginger, and made him look (in his eyes) awful.

When he looked into the mirror, he saw pieces of himself that he liked, but the whole picture was distressing. He looked like a girl who had gone wrong, not like a boy. He still had hips and breasts and a vagina. He’d skipped two periods in a row, though, which had been such a relief that it morphed into horror, and he worried about it coming on unexpectedly.

Sherlock almost told John. Twice.

Once, when he was high as a kite, just taken cocaine, and he started writing an epic email that explained what it meant to be transgender, and how that applied to him, and how he was so in love with John, wouldn’t John just accept it?

He found the message in his Drafts, the next morning, and spent all day in a near panic at the thought of what he could have done.

The second time, was less panic-driven, but just as bad. They were just out of their Chemistry exam, and sprawled on the playing field at the back of school, swigging water and talking about the paper. Sherlock was certain he would get 100%, whilst John was worried about passing at all.

“You don’t need to worry,” Sherlock nudged him, any excuse for physical contact. “You’ve worked hard. You can always re-sit if you had a complete mind-blank.”

“Ha, we’ll see…” John picked the label off his water bottle. His fingers moved deftly, and Sherlock stared at them, trying to imagine if they were rough, or smooth. He’d replayed the memory of them holding hands in his lounge until, like an old projection strip, it had burned away and become faded, over-used. He was only sure now that it had happened. The details were gone. “So… you going away for summer?”

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft is going to Italy, and he did invite me, but I’m… not bothered about going.”

“Ha. Alright for some, when you can turn down a free holiday abroad,” John rolled his eyes.

“I know, I make it sound like a chore,” Sherlock sighed. “But two weeks with Mycroft would send me over the edge. And I’m not one for sitting on a sun-lounger.”

“You’d be reading in the shade, that’d suit you.”

“I suppose.”

John’s cheeks went pink. “I know you don’t like swimming, but you could paddle.”

“I… could,” Sherlock nodded. “I used to like swimming.”

“What changed your mind?” John raised his eyebrows. “Did you have a bad experience, or something?”

“No, I just… lost my confidence, a bit,” Sherlock picked a blade of grass, and split it with his thumbnail.

“With swimming?”

“With…” Sherlock hesitated. “With… With what I look like.”

John blinked, and Sherlock heard him scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s really not.”

“Um. Yeah, it is. You’ve got nothing to be worried about.” John went redder, and looked away. “I’ve seen you in shorts.”

Sherlock didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “Yes, those spindly little legs.”

“You’re spindly all over,” John teased, the embarrassment fading. “Like a little twig.”

“It’s natural!” Sherlock pouted.

“I know,” John smiled. “I wasn’t being horrible. I meant, like… not everyone’s built like a brick shithouse, are they? You’re just you, and I’m… it’s kind of sad that you don’t like yourself.”

 _You have no idea_ , Sherlock thought, sadly. “My body isn’t right.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, honestly, I…” Sherlock was so close, he could just blurt it out, just say _I’m transgender_.

John put his arm around him.

It was the closest they’d been since that day on the pit top.

Sherlock’s heart went into overdrive, every nerve in his skin on fire as he was suddenly hyper-aware of the straps of his binder, the empty space in his boxer-briefs…

John squeezed his shoulder, and let go. “I hope you learn to like yourself,” he said.

Sherlock nodded, his heart sinking. It would have been a nice thing to hear, if he was cis. If he wasn’t struggling to change his body to how it _should_ look. It would have been nice. But it just hurt.

John changed the subject, and they stayed on their field until it was time to get home.

Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom when he got back, and added another row of slices to his sore and wounded breasts.

 

*

 

The summer holidays started, and John vanished for a horrible fortnight, when he went to see his mum.

Sherlock was in a terrible mood for the entire time, texting John every few hours, asking what he was doing. John stopped replying to every message, after a while, and Sherlock suspected he was being told to leave his phone alone. That was just typical.

He mooched around the house, stood in the library playing his violin, and even refused to say goodbye to Mycroft when he went to the airport.

“I don’t know why you’re in such a sour mood, Sherlock,” his mother sighed, as they drove home after dropping Mycroft off. “John will be back in a few days, if not sooner.”

Sherlock huffed, and folded his arms, giving the car windows a good glare. John was meant to be back sometime this week.

“I think we need to speak to Dr Blume,” his mother went on. “I think your dosage is too high. You’ve been all over the place, lately, locking yourself in your room, coming out unwashed and twitching –”

“That’s nothing to do with my T,” Sherlock said, his voice croaking, through underuse. Plus, it was breaking, now.

“Well, then, what is it?” she turned around in the passenger seat. “Sherlock, we are trying, but we need you to talk to us. Do you want me to book you in for more therapy?”

Sherlock shook his head.

She sighed. “Darling, I do wish you’d let me help you.”

“You can’t.”

They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

When they got back, Sherlock took himself to his room, and lay out a line, not bothering to measure the correct dosage. He checked his phone.

 

**Back tonight! Brought you a stick of rock. See you soon! JW x**

He considered deleting the message, but closed it, instead. He’d seen John tomorrow, and that would be fine. Painful, but fine.

It was all fine, really.

“Sherlock!” his mother banged on his door, startling him.

He opened it a crack, grateful his desk was out of view. “What?”

“We have to go back to the airport,” she sighed, irritably. “Mycroft’s case didn’t get loaded onto the plane, and it needs collecting. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

“Buy a load of new clothes, I should think,” Sherlock shrugged. “Do I have to come?”

She considered. “No, you can stay here,” she said finally. “Just don’t put the bolt on the door, when you lock it. We’ll be back late.”

“Ok.” Sherlock closed the door again, and locked it, hearing his mother click her tongue on the other side of it. She worried. She was right to. But she didn’t know what he did when he was on his own.

His parents had been trying. It would be a lie to say they hadn’t been. They used male pronouns around half the time, and Sherlock’s father had bought him some cufflinks, though Sherlock had spoiled it by pointing out that all of his shirt cuffs had buttons.

They tried, because they were stuck with him.

They’d much rather he didn’t exist at all.

As soon as he heard the front door slam, Sherlock stuck his nose over his desk, snorting up the powder. It took two attempts, there was that much of it.

But he didn’t want to feel his body. He wanted to be separate from it.

It was a miscalculation.

Sherlock’s mind, rather than drifting pleasantly as it usually did, snapped into awareness. It was so sudden that he gasped. He was aware of _everything_. He could hear his own heartbeat, smell the lilies in the hall, taste iron in his mouth from biting his own tongue.

He could feel his entire body, a hundred times more than usual.

 _No, this isn’t right…_ he gripped the desk edge. _Incorrect dosage. Increased rather than decreased awareness and attachment to physical form…_

His mind wandered again, and he could feel every fibre of his clothes clinging to him. He tore off his shirt and vest, dropping them to his bedroom floor, struggling with his binder. He couldn’t get it off easily when he was sober, never mind when he was high. He swore and struggled, falling over and banging his side hard on the desk, eventually getting the binder off and throwing it across the room.

The fresh air felt good.

He ran a hand over his body, feeling the softness, the slightly damp and sweaty skin from his fight with the binder.

“Ouch…” he looked down at where his fingers brushed his cuts, unhealed and sore, from being kept tight and bound all day.

Rage suddenly boiled over inside him, and he slapped himself. And again. And again, until his right eye began to shut by itself. That was no good. He had to be rid of this.

Rid of everything.

Sherlock charged out of his room, staggering and falling into the banister on the landing before half-falling down the stairs, hurting himself further, but hardly feeling it. The detachment he sought was coming, now, numbing his nerves and killing the recognition of pain.

That was good. If he felt pain, he might stop. He couldn’t stop, now.

This might be his only chance.

Sherlock went into the kitchen, knocking over a chair, as he reached for the knife block, extracting a serrated one that looked like it was sharp enough.

His legs gave way, and he sat on the floor, his back to one of the units, as he lined the blade up to his breast, and dragged it, testing, over one of his already-weeping cuts.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: SELF HARM, MISGENDERING, BLOOD
> 
> *****
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely words, and all the support for this fic. xx

John didn’t know why he did it.

Even years later, when he thought back to it, he could never say what made him get on his bike, having not been home twenty minutes, and cycle off to Sherlock’s house. He didn’t believe in fate. Or serendipity. Or any of that bullshit.

But whatever it was, he got on his bike, put the present he had for Sherlock in his coat, zipped up to the neck, and set off into the evening sunset.

The air was warm, and he rather enjoyed the pink and red streaks colouring the sky. He had some sweets, and a pen, for Sherlock. He hadn’t been able to afford much else, but he knew Sherlock had a sweet tooth, and he knew he got through a lot of pens. And everyone said it was the thought that counted.

John had missed his friend, so much.

More than he’d anticipated. His mum had gotten annoyed with the constant texting (even more so when she heard he was texting a boy), and not replying to Sherlock’s texts made him anxious and worried. He missed Sherlock so much it was like a constant ache inside him.

He loved him.

It wasn’t just fancying, or just liking someone a lot. It was love. It had to be. John had never been in love before, but he was pretty sure this was in. This desire to look after someone, to be close to them, to touch them, to be with them even when they drove you crazy… that was love, right?

Even if Sherlock didn’t love him back, John had to at least admit it to himself. He had to come to terms with it.

It was ok.

Even if it hurt so badly he would hunch up in bed, hands over his head, face screwed up with trying not to cry.

He pedalled hard up the rising drive to Sherlock’s house, skidding over the gravel as he dismounted, and parked his bike up at the side of the house. He smoothed his hair, took the little gift bag from under his jacket, and rang the bell. His heart was jumping as he waited, hoping to gods that Sherlock would be the one to answer the door.

Except, no one answered the door.

John rang the bell again, frowning. Someone had to be in – there were lights on upstairs and down. John knew that the Holmes family only had automatic lights in the sitting room and the upstairs landing.

He tried the door handle, and of course, it was locked.

John pursed his lips, and went to look through the lounge window. It was empty.

“Should go…” John murmured to himself.

But that same feeling – that _you need to be here_ feeling, got hold of him again. He walked around the house, following the brickwork, one finger on the rough texture, round to the back door.

It was ajar.

So, they were in.

But not answering the door, which was pretty bizarre.

John frowned, and pushed it open, stepping into the utility room, and listening.

The house was not silent.

In fact, there was a horrible noise coming from the next room – the kitchen. The noise was a weird warbling, sobbing, clattering, gasping noise. Like something being tortured.

John tensed, fear washing through his insides like icy water – god, what if someone had broken in, and was hurting Sherlock – hurting anyone? He took out his phone, and dialled 999, holding his thumb over the ‘Call’ button, as he pushed the door open.

The sight that greeted him would never, ever, leave his mind.

 

*

 

Sherlock couldn’t stop, couldn’t continue, couldn’t think, couldn’t stop thinking. Blood soaked his chest, arms, hands, stomach, trousers, the tiles beneath him. He shuddered and moaned at the pain, but he couldn’t stop now – he had to cut them off – if he caused enough damage, they'd have to cut them off – he had to – had to – had –

And then he was stopping.

Or – being stopped.

It didn’t matter.

Black was eating at his vision.

He let it.

 

*

 

“Fucking hell.” John shouted in horror, dropping his phone and the present. He threw himself at Sherlock, grabbing his wrist, forcing the knife away from him, wrenching it from his grasp.

Sherlock’s eyes were wild – staring at nothing. He was shaking, crying, not fighting John one bit as he slumped back onto the tiles, blood covering him, pouring from ragged, deep wounds on his –

John blinked, then shook his head, grabbing a towel from the radiator and clamping it over Sherlock’s chest, pressing hard with one hand as he snatched his phone, and pressed ‘Call’.

“999 Emergency Services, which service do you require?”

“Ambulance,” John sobbed.

-click-

“London Ambulance Service, please state the nature of your emergency.”

John felt blood start to soak through the towel. “My friend… he – he’s cut himself.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No, he’s not… he’s shaking, but he’s not awake…”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes, but it’s shallow –”

“What sort of blood loss are we talking, sir?”

“He’s cut his – his chest,” John didn’t know what else to say. Sherlock had cut himself, but he’d cut… god… “It’s really deep,” John said, crying. “I’ve got a towel over it and it’s bleeding through, god, please, it’s Somerset House on Trubride Road, please, god…”

“An ambulance is on its way,” the operator said. “Can you wake your friend up?”

“I…”

“Try, young man, you have to try…”

John rubbed Sherlock’s cheek with his fingers. “Sherlock. Sherlock, please, come on, wake up…”

“Is it possible your friend has taken drugs, or alcohol?”

“I don’t…” John paused. “I don’t know. He… He won’t wake up, and his eyes were all staring, before I stopped him.”

“You found him cutting?”

“Yes, I…” John covered his mouth as he started crying. “I was just coming to see him, I…” he checked the towel. “Fuck, it’s bleeding through, Jesus Christ, how long is this ambulance going to be?”

“Five minutes away. Make sure the front door is open – wide open.”

John ran to do it, propping the door open, and the kitchen door, too, before getting another towel on Sherlock’s bleeding chest. The first towel had wiped some of the blood off, and gave John a sight of what Sherlock had been trying to cut off.

None of it made any sense.

“Sherlock, mate, is this why?” he whispered.

“Hello?!” a voice yelled. “Paramedics!”

“In here,” John shouted, hanging up his phone, and looking up as two green-uniformed paramedics rushed in. “I – I’ve tried to stop it, but –”

“You’ve done a great job,” the male paramedic knelt down and took over, lifting the towel to check the wound, and making a hiss in distress. “Jane, prime the royal, she’s going to need surgery.”

 _She_? John frowned, then looked back at Sherlock with new eyes.

Breasts. Curves. Nothing in those clinging pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock was a girl.

It still didn’t make sense.

The paramedics clamped fabric and gauze over Sherlock’s wound, and put a mask of some sort of his face. They transferred his floppy body onto a stretcher, and lifted him up.

“Can I come?” John asked, quickly.

“Yes, love, jump in the back. Is she your sister? Or girlfriend?”

“No,” John shook his head, slamming the front door behind him, not bothering to worry about the bloody mess in the kitchen.

Sherlock was strapped onto a board, and Jane, the paramedic who wasn’t driving, started taking his vitals.

“I think she’s taken drugs, love,” Jane sighed. “I’ll need to take some bloods to work out what, unless you know?”

“I don’t know…” John couldn’t correct the ‘she’. He didn’t understand if it was right, or not. “I didn’t look upstairs. I just… found him.”

If the paramedic noticed the pronoun, she didn’t bother commenting, just kept on taking care of Sherlock as the ambulance sped into the city, blue lights blazing.

 

*

 

Mycroft was just checking into his hotel when his phone rang.

He sighed dramatically, taking it out to see **Mother Calling**.

“Yes, Mummy?” he answered. Then his face fell.

He was on a plane within the next hour, his hands shaking as he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that his little brother would be ok.


	9. Chapter 9

It was pain that woke Sherlock.

He made an inhuman noise, his eyes still closed, as he felt pain radiate across his chest, setting his skin and muscles on fire, his bones shattering like broken ice.

There was shuffling, movement on his right-hand side.

The pain lessened.

He fell asleep again.

 

*

 

He woke again, more naturally, eyes on where the ceiling met the top of the wall opposite his bed. The ceiling was made of padded tiles, resting in a metal frame. The wall was white. There was a sharps bin against it. A notice to _Please Wash Your Hands_. Clinical.

Sherlock inhaled, feeling pain lance across his chest again. “Am I in a psychiatric unit?” he croaked.

“No,” Mycroft’s voice came from the right. “Not yet, anyway.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, running his fingers over the sheet beneath him.

“Do you know what you did?”

“I can deduce. From the location of the pain.”

Mycroft sat forward, and Sherlock could just make him out in his peripheral vision. “How long have you been taking drugs, Sherlock?”

There was no point in lying about it. “Five months.”

Mycroft puffed out a breath that seemed relieved. “I see.”

“I’m not an addict.”

“Is that so?”

“I just… use it.”

Mycroft stood, and came to where Sherlock could see him properly. “For once in your life, you don’t have to explain. I think I can _deduce_ on my own, the reasons behind this. I am just sorry I did not notice sooner, and get you help before you hurt yourself.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I wasn’t… I mean…”

“I don’t necessarily mean this incident,” Mycroft said gently. “The doctors who treated you mentioned the other wounds and marks on your body. How long has that been going on?”

Sherlock wanted to shrug, but it was too painful.

“You need to accept help that’s offered to you, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed, and glanced at the ceiling. “Before you’re waking up somewhere you won’t leave in a hurry.”

“…I know.” Sherlock touched his thigh, feeling soft pyjama bottoms. Someone had dressed him. “Who dressed me?”

“Mummy, and one of the nurses,” Mycroft said. “You don’t seem to own any clean clothes, so these are new.”

Sherlock bit his lip as tears started to well. “I – I don’t want anyone to – to see – I don’t –”

“Your medical needs have to come first, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, an edge to his calm tone, now. “You have to let yourself be taken care of. I will not have you putting yourself through this again.”

“Putting you through it, you mean,” Sherlock snapped. “How was Italy? Did you even make it out of the airport?”

“You’re looking for an outlet, and you won’t get one from me,” Mycroft said, ignoring his little brother. “Besides, you have to thank someone else for your whereabouts.”

Sherlock looked up, a sharp pain his reward. “Ouch. Who?”

“It wasn’t any of your family who found you,” Mycroft said. “It was John Watson.”

Horror took hold of Sherlock. He went white, all the blood in his body rushing to his head as he felt faint and sick, fear curling a sharp path through his insides, and making him tremble.

“W-what?”

“John found you. In the act. He called the ambulance. He saved your life.” Mycroft sighed. “We have a great deal to thank him for.”

“John saw me,” Sherlock breathed, his chest starting to heave, though it hurt tremendously. “Oh god, John… John saw my… Oh…” he covered his face with his hands. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no…”

“John Watson rode with you in the ambulance. He kept pressure on your wounds until paramedics arrived, and he has not left your side since you were admitted. He’s only not here now because I made him go and find something to eat,” Mycroft’s ears went red. “You are luckier than you realise to have him as a friend.”

Sherlock dropped his hands. “I don’t – I don’t want him as a friend!”

Mycroft’s expression melted into sorrow, before he caught it. “Whatever kind of love John has for you, he proved it tenfold last night and today. You would be foolish to throw it away.”

Sherlock stared. “I want a mirror.”

“By all means…” Mycroft lifted the plastic vanity from the wheeled table, and went to hold it at the end of Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock had to admit it was a relief. His (obviously men’s) pyjamas were the kind that buttoned up the front, clearly for easy access to the bandages he could just about see beneath the fabric, but they disguised his chest well enough, if he held the blanket up, as well. His face was a mess of bruises on one side, but not swollen.

“I’d say you look well enough for a visitor,” Mycroft said, a tiny smile on his face.

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll open the door. He’s been loitering about for the last four minutes.”

Sherlock grabbed the blanket, and yanked it up to his chin as Mycroft opened the door.

A very tired-looking John walked in, holding a coffee in one hand, and a pastry bag in the other. There was dried blood – Sherlock’s blood – on his t-shirt, and he looked as if he was ready to collapse.

“You’re awake!” he gasped, then seemed to go limp. “Thank fuck. Sorry, Mycroft.”

Sherlock had to smile.

“Not at all,” Mycroft indicated the chair. “I’ll give the two of you some space.”

Sherlock almost protested, but Mycroft was already closing the door.

The silence that followed the ‘click’ of the latch was deafening.

John put his things down on the table, and seemed to be thinking of what to say.

Sherlock beat him to it. “John – John, I’m really sorry –”

“So you should be,” John turned to face him. “This was my favourite t-shirt,” he plucked at the bloodstains.

Sherlock gave a tiny laugh, that sounded more like a sob.

“…can I sit on your bed?”

Sherlock nodded, and John perched on the edge, so they could look at each other properly. John looked exhausted – there were violet circles around his eyes, and his hair was on end, as though he’d been running his hands through it.

“Mycroft… said you found me,” Sherlock said, voice barely above a whisper.

John nodded. “Yeah. That wasn’t great. Turns out nothing tests your urge to be a doctor like finding your friend injured.”

“John –”

“Sherlock, I feel like I need to say sorry,” John said, quickly. “I – I saw, when I was trying to mop you up… I know you wouldn’t have wanted me to see, so I’m sorry.”

Sherlock clenched the blanket in his fingers. “I…”

“If you’d wanted me to know, you’d’ve told me, right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asked, looking up.

Sherlock badly wanted to shake his head. “I… don’t know.”

“You don’t have to,” John smiled, sadly. “I… don’t pretend to know what it’s like. I’m sorry you got outed without giving your consent. But I’m not sorry I was there. I’ll never, ever, be sorry I was there to stop you, Sherlock. You could have died. Fuck, there was that much blood… I thought I was going to lose you.”

Sherlock’s lip wobbled violently.

“I don’t want to lose you, ok?” John said, looking Sherlock dead in the eye. “Ever. I want you to be happy, and – and no matter what we are to each other, I still want to keep you safe, and happy, ok? You… I don’t give a shit what secrets you keep from me, so long as they’re not making you hurt yourself.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I – I’m sorry. I’m sorry I… lied to you.”

John blinked. “When did you lie to me? This… is really none of my business, is it?”

“I don’t mean me,” Sherlock went red. “I don’t mean what I look like, I mean…” He took a shuddering breath. “I mean what I said on the pit top, ages ago.”

John stared, then his eyes went wide. “You mean about us being friends.”

Sherlock nodded.

“So… which bit were you lying about?”

Sherlock let go of the blanket, and knotted his fingers together, instead. “I… I said I didn’t want… But that’s only because I didn’t want you to… know. And – and I was worried you might think I was…” he grimaced.

“Was what?” John put his head slightly on one side.

“… a girl.”

“But… you’re not a girl?” The question rather ruined it, but it was better than Sherlock had hoped for.

“No. I’m not.”

John looked as if he was thinking about what to say next. “Have you… always been… not a girl?”

Sherlock’s mouth turned down. “Psychologically speaking. I only started transitioning… presenting as a boy… when I moved schools.”

“Oh…” John looked as though he was realising. Probably thinking about how young Sherlock looked in September. How he never played sports, how he always wore a dark shirt, how he’d get out of breath if he had to run, how his arms and hands were thin, how he’d always looked like a girl, but John had chosen not to see.

Sherlock wanted to dissolve through shame.

But then…

John’s hand slipped into his own, prising his fingers from their iron grip, and softly holding on, like an anchor in the storm of Sherlock’s thoughts.

“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” John said, so gently it was like a caress with words. “I thought you didn’t like me. I… I nearly went up the wall trying to stop liking you, but I didn’t. I couldn’t stop liking you, Sherlock. Everything about you drives me crazy, and I mean that in a good way, and the way that makes me want to snap pencils. You’re just you, and that’s what I… I still… I…”

Sherlock realised he was crying – his face was wet, and drops were hitting the sheet in his lap.

John reached up with his free hand, and gently thumbed over Sherlock’s cheeks, wiping his tears away. “You don’t have to cry.”

“I’m really sorry,” Sherlock covered his eyes with one hand, gripping John’s fingers with the other. “I… I’m not –”

“It’s ok,” John climbed up the bed, nestling beside Sherlock, and holding his hand tight. “Sherlock, it’s ok. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You will.”

“Why will I?”

“Because I’m not –”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” John said firmly. “You’re my best mate, and you’re the boy I want to be with, ok? Nothing else matters, not to me.”

_you’re the boy I want to be with_

_you’re the boy I want to be with_

_you’re the_ boy _I want to be with_

Sherlock sobbed, turning his face to hide it in John’s shoulder. John put a hand on Sherlock’s waist, and held him, shushing him as he cried, the two of them not speaking, not having the words for this, only the desperate need to be close.

 

*

 

Mycroft found them both, wrapped in each other’s arms, fast asleep, half an hour after he left the room. He watched the two teenage boys softly breathing one another in for a moment, then left, and went to sit outside the door, lest they be disturbed.


	10. Chapter 10

 

“A month?” Sherlock wailed, his hands giving a flap in distress.

“Four weeks,” the surgeon clarified. “You really need this to heal well, Sherlock. I know you want keyhole top surgery at some point, but you’re going to have this scar, now, regardless. You need to make sure it heals well.”

“But what am I meant to do for _four weeks_?”

“I’m sure that no one –”

“Don’t tell me no one will notice,” Sherlock spat, venomously.

Sherlock’s mother rubbed her arms in worry. “Sherlock, I’m sure we can come up with a -”

“It’s summer,” Sherlock pointed out. “I can’t wear a coat.”

“Just be thankful it _is_ summer,” the surgeon said. “And you’re not at school. Four weeks, Sherlock. No binding, no sports bras. You need to heal.”

Sherlock folded his arms, and huffed, as the surgeon gave a few instructions to his parents. It was so blindingly unfair. He only had a thin dressing on, but the bumps under his t-shirt were evident. He’d ended up like this because he was trying to get rid – it was a sick punishment that he should be forced to live with his breasts on display as a result.

“Don’t say I’m getting what I deserve,” Sherlock said, as they all walked to the car, Mycroft carrying his bag. “I don’t want to hear it.” He hunched as they passed someone, who was, of course, oblivious to the contrast of Sherlock’s chest and the stubble on his chin.

“I’m saddened you think so little of me. Of any of us,” Mycroft tutted. “It is very unfortunate, but you know we will try to make this as comfortable for you as possible.”

“I can’t even wear two t-shirts,” Sherlock sighed, launching himself into the car.

His father pulled the seatbelt out for him, and his mother slipped a cushion between it and Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock was so self-absorbed and miserable, he didn’t even comment.

They drove home from the hospital in relative silence, the radio playing some old music that didn’t ask anyone to sing along.

Sherlock leaned his head on the window-frame, and thought of John.

 

*

 

John came over an hour after Sherlock was home, having been summoned by text. He was more than a little relieved to get out of the house – in summer, the place grew damp and smelled weird, and John was certain things were breeding in the carpets, so he tried to stay out of the house as much as possible. He’d done all his homework in the week Sherlock was in hospital, some beside Sherlock’s bed, and some in the library, but he’d missed being able to see his friend properly. Thank goodness they still had four weeks or so of the summer holidays.

After the evening sleeping cuddled together on the bed, they’d not really discussed anything about how they felt. For Sherlock, the idea, and the non-physical wounds, were too raw, and John was more than willing to wait for Sherlock to be comfortable with any conversation.

Mycroft answered the door to him, and quickly took John to one side, before Sherlock knew he was there.

“He’s very upset,” Mycroft warned. “He can’t use his binder for a month, and he’s not taking it very well.”

“I’m not surprised,” John rolled his eyes. “Can’t he wear… anything else?”

“No, the wounds have to heal before he can wear anything but loose clothing, I’m afraid. He… might be…”

“Ok,” John nodded. “If he tells me to go away, I’ll just have to go, won’t I?”

They went into the lounge, where Sherlock was propped up on cushions on the sofa, another cushion held over his chest with his folded arms. He was staring sulkily at something on the television, but looked up and brightened as he saw John.

“Hey,” John smiled. “You look loads better for being home.”

“I feel it,” Sherlock said, adjusting his cushion, though not moving it. “Anything to get away from those doctors.”

“Yeah, doctors are the worst,” John drawled, and Sherlock smiled. “Hey, they weren’t all bad. Dr Blume was great, wasn’t she.”

“Not in Mummy’s opinion,” Sherlock snorted. “She doesn’t approve.”

“Well, it makes sense to me. If you’re dysphoric enough to… yeah, then increasing your dose might actually help.”

“I’ve read a lot of positive feedback,” Sherlock said, nodding at his phone. “It’ll be trial and error, I suppose.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’ll go and see what’s happening in regards to lunch.”

“Priorities, Mycroft,” Sherlock smirked, watching his brother scowl before leaving.

John scooted over, and perched on the footstool near Sherlock’s head. “Hey, handsome.”

“Uh, don’t,” Sherlock put a hand over his face. “I feel disgusting.”

“Mycroft told me what the deal is with your binder. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Sherlock dropped his hand. “Utterly ridiculous. I’m being punished for trying to –”

“You’re not being punished,” John took his hand, “they just want you to get well.”

“They should have just lopped them off in surgery.”

“You know they can’t just do that.”

“They should.” Sherlock pouted, and looked back at the TV screen.

John smiled, and stroked the back of Sherlock’s head, feeling the cleanly-washed curls. “It won’t be too long, will it?”

Sherlock stiffened. “John… if the scheduling of my preferred surgeries is going to be a worry to you, I think maybe you and I would be better off not –”

“Woah, hang on,” John took his hand away from Sherlock’s hair, and went for his hand, instead, holding it firmly on the cushion that still hid Sherlock’s chest. “That’s not what I was saying. I’m just thinking what _you_ want, ok? I guess you’d have it done tomorrow if you could.”

“If not sooner,” Sherlock sighed, letting John’s thumb stroke over his fingers.

“There you go, then. I just would rather you got what you wanted before too long.”

Sherlock gave a small smile. “I need to have more therapy, more psycho-evaluations… especially now. I’ve throw somewhat of a spanner in the works.”

“Without being a bit presumptuous, you’d think they’d have measures in place to deal with this sort of thing already,” John sighed.

“Not everyone trans hurts themselves or takes drugs,” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s nothing personal, I know, but… I just wish they’d get on with it. Right now I’m letting a part of my body heal that I want removing. It hurts my brain.” He shut his eyes, and John felt his heart ache for him.

He gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze. “If you want… you can put that cushion down,” he said, gently. “You know I’m not going to think any differently of you. I saw you in hospital. And before.”

“I really wish you hadn’t,” Sherlock said, eyes still shut. “That’s all you’re going to think of, now. Me, with – with – with – ”

“I’m offended you think so,” John teased. “That’s not true, at all. I’m never going to wish I hadn’t seen. Because seeing made me save your life, ok? It’s not you. It’s just a thing you’re going to correct. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Sherlock opened one eye. “John… Do you like me because I have… girl parts?”

“What?” John went red. “No!”

“Despite, then?”

“That’s… not quite it, either,” John said, trying to think. “It’s…. I like you. Sherlock. That’s all there is to it. I like you. And you’re… transgender. They’re not separate things, but they don’t have anything to do with each other. It’s difficult to explain.”

Sherlock nodded. “Try being in it.”

John laughed. “Is that ok, though? What I said?”

“Yes, I think so,” Sherlock sat up a bit, wincing. He looked down at the cushion, then flung it over the back of the sofa, as if he didn’t care, but his blush said otherwise.

John caught his hand again. “That’ll be better for your wound. It needs to breathe, not be clamped under a cushion.”

Sherlock nodded, taking a shaky breath, looking deeply uncomfortable for a moment, before glancing down at himself, and plucking at his loose t-shirt so it didn’t cling quite so badly.

“Do you think… we could try being… boyfriends?” John asked, his tongue feeling all wrong in his mouth as he spoke.

Sherlock looked at him in alarm, then went scarlet from his chin to the roots of his hair. “John!”

“Is that a ‘no’?” John coughed, fear seizing his insides.

“No, just… you said _boyfriends_. Not – not _partners_ , or anything gender-neutral. I…” Sherlock bit his lip, and nodded. “I’ve wanted that for ages, you have no fucking idea –”

“Oh, I have an idea, alright,” John smiled, lifting Sherlock’s hand, and kissing it. “If you’re anything like me, it’s been fucking ages.”

“Just a bit.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock looked away, shyly.

John shuffled closer, and reached for his chin, feeling the slightly taut stretch and soreness that told him Sherlock had run a razor over his chin not long ago. He wondered, sadly, if Mycroft, or Mr Holmes, had had to watch him do it, in case he got other ideas about the blade. Sorrow and protectiveness suddenly welled up in John, and he leaned in close, hovering just before Sherlock’s mouth, his hand moved to the back of that dark head of curls.

“Why’ve you stopped?” Sherlock whispered.

“I just wanted to be sure you were sure,” John breathed, and closed the space between them, planting a soft, chaste kiss on the boy’s mouth, feeling those full lips press against his own flat ones, Sherlock’s intake of breath through the nose as he leaned forward, the grab of clutching fingers at John’s t-shirt.

It was over way too quickly.

They both smiled stupidly at each other.

Sherlock fingered at John’s t-shirt, feeling his way over John’s chest, up to his shoulder, down to his bare arm, touching at the summer-tanned skin, a look on his face like someone discovering a secret.

“You are so gorgeous,” John said, softly.

Sherlock shook his head.

“I mean it,” John said. “I honestly mean it. You’re gorgeous. Handsome, _and_ beautiful. You’ve been driving me crazy in those bloody tight trousers for months.”

Sherlock burst out laughing. “Oh my god. Says you in your rugby kit, turning up all sweaty and muddy…”

“Oh, so you like a bit of rough?” John teased.

Sherlock smiled, then looked vaguely nervous. “I… John, I… I don’t really know what I like.”

It was blindingly obvious that they were now talking about sex, and both teenagers felt a flush of embarrassment.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to find out,” John said. “And I’ll just listen to you. The yeses and the nos. I’m not in a hurry.”

Sherlock nodded, putting a hand flat to John’s sternum, and splaying his fingers like a star. “Thank you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Sherlock and John are seventeen. This is over the age of consent in the UK, so I haven't tagged as underage, but just a heads-up that here follows sexual content.

“How are you so good at this game?” John moaned, as Sherlock beat him over the finish line again.

It was the third rainy day in a row, and two weeks into Sherlock’s binder-free healing time. Thanks to the internet, and a few helpful people posting on forums, Sherlock had quickly learned to disguise his chest, with shirts cut to lie a certain way, and others with bulky chest pockets that distracted the eye. They didn’t work side-on, of course, but Sherlock figured out how to hold his posture to avoid drawing attention during the few times they absolutely had to go outside.

As they were indoors, Sherlock had settled for a thin t-shirt with lots of bold colours on it that was distraction enough.

It made John happy that he was alright with that, when he was around.

“This game is basically maths,” Sherlock twiddled the controller as his tiny car on the screen responded. “Angles, probability… the algorithms collecting data… It’s not difficult.”

“Says you,” John winced, as his car crashed into another barrier. “Bloody hell.”

“You are useless,” Sherlock teased. “Look, just watch me.” He switched the game onto single-player mode, and, after pausing a moment, climbed to sit between John’s legs, holding the controller so they both could see. “Ok, so you just…” he pressed ‘Play’, and the game started again.

John made an ‘uh-hm’ noise in his throat as Sherlock nestled against his chest. He kept his hands firmly on his thighs, for a moment, watching Sherlock play, taking in the way his hair curled at the back of his neck, the slight bumps of his spine, his skinny arms and shoulders that pressed against John, seeking contact.

It was so natural, to be this close to him. Sherlock’s chest was still sore, but the wound had closed up neatly, and his stitches had been removed. The day after they were taken out, Sherlock had been horribly dysphoric, and John and Mycroft had stayed up with him all night as he cried and shook and hid in his duvet because they wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom unaccompanied. He was better the next day, when his new antidepressants kicked in again, and John sat on the side and watched him shave his face, even though he barely needed to. John understood that. It was a masculine action he had control over.

It was understandable, and utterly sorrowful.

John’s hand crept from his left leg over to Sherlock’s stomach, touching gently at the t-shirt, before resting his hand over Sherlock’s navel.

Sherlock shifted slightly, but didn’t move away, just kept on playing at the game, hardly giving away that he’d even noticed John’s hand on his belly, aside from a slight pinkening of his ears.

John kept his breathing steady.

They’d talked about it, fleetingly, in snatches of conversation, about what Sherlock’s boundaries were. His chest was a no-go, or at least it had been so far – Sherlock was reluctant to even hug John face to face until he could get his binder back on.

But this seemed to be ok.

Sherlock pressed a few buttons on the controller, and John sat up slightly, pressing a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock hummed, and tilted his head slightly to one side, letting John’s kisses continue, over the back of his neck, and down his throat.

John could feel his own breath coming in little shaky pants, his arms were trembling, just enough to make this scary, as well as lovely.

Sherlock put the controller down, and leaned against John properly, the game forgotten as he relaxed, letting John’s hand slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt, and touch warmly at the skin of his stomach.

“You’re so gorgeous,” John breathed, kissing at the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw so he shuddered. “So handsome and gorgeous, and right here… you’re…”

Sherlock turned, then, hooking his legs over John’s, and then round again so he was sitting in his lap, John leaning against the bed, Sherlock’s legs kicking out beneath it as they kissed on the lips, properly, Sherlock’s arms around John’s neck.

John let Sherlock lead, their kisses starting off gentle and curious, then drifting into something deeper. Sherlock hunched his shoulders as they kissed, trying to avoid his chest touching John’s, and John did the same, keeping the space between them that Sherlock needed.

Sherlock’s tongue slipped hesitantly into John’s mouth, and John thought he might explode from the touch as it swept over his own, followed by a small kiss to the lips, like a full stop, or an ellipsis, because the kisses kept coming, and Sherlock’s hands were roaming John’s hair, and shoulders, and arms.

John ran his hands over Sherlock’s legs, gripping the muscles of his thighs, feeling Sherlock shudder in response.

“You ok?” he asked, breaking their kiss. “This ok?”

“Mm,” Sherlock nodded, going back to chase John’s mouth, twitching his hips slightly as John repeated the massaging action again, and again, moving up his legs to stroke over the curve of his arse.

“God,” John swallowed, glancing down at where they were connected at his lap. He was hard, and any tiny motion from Sherlock was only making him harder. He didn’t want to put Sherlock off…

“John,” Sherlock smiled, against his mouth. “Are you pleased to see me?”

John went red, and grinned back. “Little bit.”

Sherlock looked down, not seeing much thanks to his own legs straddling John. “Do… do you think I could…”

“What?” John splayed his hands on Sherlock’s back, not daring to get his hopes up.

Sherlock dropped a hand, and skimmed his touch over John’s jeans button, before looking shyly into his boyfriend’s eyes.

“Oh… Oh, god, yes,” John helped Sherlock up, and they quickly dived onto Sherlock’s bed, John popping his jeans button open as they arranged themselves on top of the covers, on their sides, facing each other.

Sherlock brushed his hair out of his eyes, and licked his lips before moving in close to kiss John again, putting a tentative hand on the other boy’s hip.

John pecked him on the nose, and pulled him close. “We don’t have to do-”

“I know,” Sherlock went for John’s zip, then changed his mind and flattened his hand over the obvious bulge in John’s jeans.

John swore under his breath, and rolled his hips against Sherlock’s hand, watching as Sherlock’s pale skin turned pink with a blush as his daring.

“That’s…”

“Still ok?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re going to take all the romance out of this, if you keep asking.” But he looked grateful, anyway. He licked his lips again as he pulled John’s zip down, and looked at John’s face for permission, before slipping his hand inside.

“Uh….” John huffed out a breath, tingles and goose-pimples running over his skin, gathering where his bum met his thighs, making his joints ache as Sherlock touched at his erection, still covered by his underpants. John swallowed hard, Sherlock touching gently at the hot hardness, feeling the width, the length.

“I’ve not done this before,” Sherlock said, his voice just a murmur.

“It’s ok…”

“This is the first one I’ve touched,” Sherlock gave a tiny smile. “That’s… weird.”

“Huh,” John blinked, realising, of course. “I never thought.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s smile widened, just a fraction, and he squeezed his grip, clenching his fingers around John’s cock, making him moan, and grip at the bedclothes.

“Sherlock –”

“Uh…” Sherlock let out a little pleasured breath of his own, his hips inching forward, as if seeking contact.

John put his hand on Sherlock’s hip, and squeezed. “Sher – Sherlock, if you wanted, I could –” his suggestion was cut off as Sherlock squeezed his cock again, up and down, through the fabric of his pants.

“S’ok,” Sherlock breathed, looking down, and pinging the elastic waistband of John’s pants. “Can I..?”

“Yes,” John nodded, not shy, helping Sherlock by shifting his jeans down as Sherlock pulled the elastic over his erection, and took him in hand properly, eyes wide and lips parted slightly at the sight.

“God…” Sherlock moved his hand again, and John had to shut his eyes to try and get some control over himself.

“Fuck…”

“Yeah…” Sherlock shifted closer, closer than they had been before, mashing his crotch against John’s thigh, John’s cock erect between the two of them as Sherlock worked his hand slowly, feeling the movement in his hand of soft skin over hard flesh, the swollen and smooth glans that gradually peeped into sight as John’s foreskin drew back. “Oh, John…”

“Sherlock, I can’t…” John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, half chasing his mouth, half trying to look into his eyes, all struggling with the feel and reality of his boyfriend pleasuring him like this. “Sher – I – I…”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, quickening his hand, moving hard and fast as John thrust into his hand, and then came with a moan muffled into the pillow. Come spurted from John’s cock, running down Sherlock’s hand, making him gasp in surprise and delight.

“God, you’re amazing,” John pulled him down for a kiss by his shirt front, forgetting to not touch in his orgasmic haze.

And Sherlock forgave him, kissing back, feeling the slightly strange squash of his breasts against John’s hand.

They parted, and John eased up onto one elbow, looking down at Sherlock. “You’re incredible… What would you… Can I…”

“I’m alright,” Sherlock smiled. “We don’t have to take turns.”

John nodded, kissing Sherlock’s forehead before rolling off the bed. “Just be a sec, yeah?”

Sherlock watched John walk awkwardly to the en suite. He sat up when the door closed, and gave his hand a wipe with the antibacterial wipes he kept beside the bed. There was nothing to be done about the bedclothes. They’d just have to be washed.

He shifted awkwardly on the bed. His small cock was erect, and pressing hard against his jeans, and he knew he was probably wet, as well, and the whole sensation was deeply unpleasant. He wanted to reach down and get himself off, but John would be out in a moment, and there was no way John was going to touch down there, just yet.

On cue, John came back out, smiling shyly.

Sherlock smiled back, shifting his hips back and forth, just to try and take some of the pressure off.

John’s eyes glittered. “Sherlock… you look like you’ve got blue balls, mate.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like you need to get off,” John laughed. “You know…” he sat beside him on the bed, “you can always just… tell me what to do. I don’t want to mess up.”

“I’m ok, tonight,” Sherlock insisted, ignoring the throb between his legs at John’s words. “I don’t… want you to… see, right now.”

John nodded. “Ok, if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

John climbed up the bed, and opened his arms.

Sherlock rolled into his embrace, and assumed the position of the little spoon. John curled around him, holding him close, knees against the backs of knees.

John kissed his hair. “You do know that you don’t have to do... stuff… to me, right? If you don’t want.”

“I know that,” Sherlock puffed out a breath. “I wanted to touch you. I want to make you feel good.”

“I feel the same way about you,” John said. “You… you know I like you, right? So much.” He kissed Sherlock’s hair again.

“I know,” Sherlock snuggled back against him, “I like you, too. But I’m not… there yet.”

“Ok,” John nosed at his ear. “Your cuddles are the best, by the way.”

Sherlock smiled. “I know.”

John squeezed him gently.

“Two weeks to go,” Sherlock sighed, looking over at his binder, hanging on the outside of the wardrobe door.

John hummed, and planted another kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Does that mean you’ll wear that nice purple shirt again, after?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock rolled onto his back and smirked. “Missed it?”

“Almost as much as I miss you when I have to go home,” John stroked down his chin. “And that’s a lot, by the way.”

“I know,” Sherlock captured John’s hand, and laced his fingers into his. “I feel the same way.”

They beamed at each other, and John felt he could drown in how much he loved this boy.

He’d tell him. Very soon.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content ahead.

Three days before school started again, Sherlock was given permission to put his binder back on.

Anticipating the good news, he’d even brought it with him to the GP, in a bag. He went straight into the toilets after the appointment, and came out wearing it, and a fitted t-shirt that suited him immensely in a soft dark blue-grey.

“Oh, you look much happier,” his mother smiled, brushing his hair back. “You need your hair cutting, though.”

“I know,” Sherlock pulled a strand down in front of his face. “I didn’t want to have to sit at the hairdresser. Or do it myself, again.”

“Well, why don’t we go now?” she offered. “And then we can get you some new bits for your uniform, and a few new shirts – your old ones don’t fit so well in the shoulder, now.”

Sherlock looked at her in surprise, then covered his pleasure with a shrug. “I suppose. Thank you.”

“As long as you’re happy, darling,” she squeezed his arm, and they went to take the car into town, together.

Sherlock sat in the back and silently mused, on the way. He used to go shopping with his mother every week, for dresses and pretty things for his hair. He remembered thinking that if he could find the right clothes, he’d stop feeling so awful about his body. That had never happened. Not until he tried on some of Mycroft’s old things, on a whim, and found that the wrenching feeling inside himself had lessened, just a bit. A few googles later, and Sherlock found the word _transgender_ , and it was like being handed a permit to exist. He existed. He was allowed to exist, he wasn’t the freak they told him he was. He could be himself.

And here he was, again, going shopping with his mother. This time for boys’ clothes.

“Mummy,” he said, as they parked up. “Do… do you think I could get a suit?”

She looked at him. “I don’t see why not. You’d look very smart.”

Sherlock smiled.

 

*

 

“You look… _fit_ ,” John gawped, as Sherlock turned on the spot in his tailored suit. “Shit, what’re you trying to do to me?”

Sherlock laughed, and pulled the jacket tight, checking how it looked buttoned. “Do you like it, then?”

“Like it? If it wasn’t obviously expensive I’d be ripping it off you. In a good way.”

Sherlock smirked, and shrugged the jacket off, hanging it back up on the hanger before going over to where John sat on his bed. “It’s a shame we have to wear uniform when we go back.”

“Well, it’s sort of a suit,” John shrugged, his eyes flicking down over Sherlock’s body, not even trying to be discreet. “Bad blazer, though.”

“Awful blazer. And tie.”

“And the trousers do nothing for you.”

Sherlock blushed, and bit his lip, touching at his shorter (and mildly tamed) hair as he and John looked at each other, their eyes saying things their mouths could not.

“It does really suit you,” John said, his voice softer. “I’m glad for you. You seem happier, as well.”

“I am,” Sherlock put a hand to his chest. “I missed this so much, you have no idea.”

“I have a bit of an idea,” John smiled. “You’re like a new man.”

Sherlock flashed a grin. He snatched at John’s wrist, pulling him to stand, and enveloping him in a hug – a proper, chest-to-chest hug.

“Ah…” John leaned against him, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, resting his hands, broad and open, on Sherlock’s back. “God, this is nice…”

“Yeah…” Sherlock kissed the side of John’s head. He leaned back a bit, and took John’s hand as it fell to his side. He brought it up and kissed the knuckles, rough from rugby and life, and then placed John’s hand on the front of his chest.

John stopped breathing. “Sh-”

“It’s ok, I want you to…” Sherlock said quickly. “Just… it’s flat now, so I don’t mind it, much.” He let go of John’s wrist, and John moved his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, neck, and back of his head, bringing him down for a soft kiss.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank –”

“For trusting me,” John said. “It… it means a lot to me, that you trust me.”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock murmured back. “You… you saved my life, pretty much. And… it was horrible keeping secrets from you, before.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to tell me everything, or give me access to everything, all at once,” John said, kissing Sherlock on the cheek. “It’s your pace, your body, Sherlock. I’ve told you, I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and cold shock lanced through his torso.

John’s mouth opened in surprise at himself, and he went scarlet. “Um. That just slipped out. But… But it is true. Erm. I meant it. I was… going to make it more romantic, when I told you, but –”

Sherlock grabbed his head in both hands, kissing him hard, fast, desperately, making him topple backwards onto the bed as Sherlock climbed over him, still kissing, through tears, and with shaking arms. This couldn’t be real, because John would never say this to him, never, ever, ever…

“I am saying it,” John managed, between kisses. “I mean it, I…”

“Oh…” Sherlock realised he’d been speaking out loud. “John… I… love you too… I thought you’d never… I wanted to say, for ages, but…”

John let out a gigantic sigh, and pulled Sherlock close, the two of them kissing and chasing lips and trying to speak, and Sherlock felt as though he would simply die on the spot and be happy for it. The two boys fumbled together on the bed, looking or comfort and purchase, before Sherlock ended up straddling one of John’s thighs, and rocking his hips forward, making himself shudder.

“Oh god…” John breathed, his face heating up. “Sherlock… those suit trousers are new, right?”

“Yes…” Sherlock swallowed hard, looking down at himself. “I…”

“You could take them off?”

Sherlock considered. John hadn’t seen him with no trousers on, yet. He could keep his boxer-briefs on… John might feel through the fabric, but right now Sherlock was half tempted to carry on and rut a hole through his new trousers, so he stood, and turned away to unfasten them, hearing John doing the same to his jeans, levelling the playing field as Sherlock folded his trousers over his arm, and quickly climbed back into the same position, John’s thigh between his legs, so there was nothing to see.

“Fuck…” John reached for Sherlock’s hips, hesitating at the last moment, until Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pushed John’s hands closer.

He flinched, slightly, at the contact of John’s hands on his bare hips. Sherlock was aware that his hips were broad, and curvy, and still fairly feminine, but John thumbed at his hip-bones, and splayed his fingers behind him, and it didn’t feel bad.

It felt… nice.

Sherlock leaned down to kiss John again, rocking his pelvis gently back and forth. A warm, pleasurable sensation began to bloom between his legs, and he had to stifle a little cry.

“What do you… call…” John glanced down at Sherlock’s crotch. He swallowed, a blush creeping over his cheeks.

“My…” Sherlock went red, too, lowering his head to hide in John’s neck as he kept his movements going. “My… cock, really.”

“You’re really hard,” John turned his head so they ended up kissing, again. “I can feel you.”

Sherlock could only nod as his cock throbbed, seeking more friction, but the texture of his pants threatening to chafe. “Mm.”

John’s hips rolled up, and Sherlock felt the much larger erection press against him. He pressed back, the two of them working into a sort of thrusting rhythm, back and forth, John’s pants being worked down so the pink head of his cock was exposed.

Sherlock reached between them both, and touched it with a fingertip, feeling the damp heat, making John hiss through his teeth, and twitch his hips up again.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock whined a little, rubbing himself hard against John’s leg. “John… I… Can…”

John blinked up at him. “Under the covers?”

“Yes.”

They moved like lightning, John stripping off his t-shirt whilst Sherlock dived under the duvet keeping his shirt and binder on, but kicking off his boxer-briefs out of sight, sighing at the free feeling, before tensing with fright as John slid into bed beside him.

“John…”

“I love you,” John said, firmly. “Sherlock Holmes, I bloody love you. And if you don’t want –” his words were cut short as Sherlock reached beneath the covers and gave his cock a firm stroke.

“Do be quiet, John, you’re ruining the mood.”

“Ok…” John’s face was a picture. Sherlock committed it to memory as he ran his hand up and down John’s erection again, his fingers enjoying the texture, marvelling at how touching John could make his own body feel good.

John moaned softly, then reached a hand across, and rested it on Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock tensed, ticklish, then let John’s hand warm his skin, and begin to move downwards.

“Anything you don’t want?” John asked, breaking the brittle silence.

“Don’t… go inside me,” Sherlock said, squeezing his eyes shut, for a moment.

“Ok, I won’t.”

“Don’t… say I’m… don’t reference anything associated with women,” Sherlock breathed, John’s fingers just brushing his pubic hair. “That’s… it.”

“You’re so gorgeous,” John smiled, leaning over, changing hands so his right hand was gently stroking at Sherlock’s pubic hair, the tops of his thighs, firmly squeezing the muscle, dragging his hand over the rough twists of hair that had grown back straggly after being shaven off a few times.

And then…

“Uhh,” Sherlock gripped the bedsheets as John’s fingers went lower, ghosting over him, touching with the lightest sensation, feeling his way, mapping Sherlock’s body without seeing it, trying not to touch where he wasn’t welcome.

Sherlock parted his legs without thinking, his cock feeling like it had a pulse, hard and ready to be touched.

And John obliged, placing a fingertip to the swollen and exposed tip, making Sherlock clamp a hand over his mouth as he fought off a cry.

“That ok?” John stilled his hand.

Sherlock nodded frantically. “Sensitive. Gentle.”

John nodded, bending to kiss Sherlock softly as he touched at his cock, rubbing in soft circles, touching the hard line of the shaft beneath loose skin, smearing wetness over the sore and sensitive flesh, but not going lower than he’d been asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and tried not to moan as John explored and pleasured him, his fingers careful and curious, but respectful, and it was so much better than Sherlock had thought it would be. John wasn’t disgusted with him.

“Your cock’s so hard,” John murmured, keeping those wonderful circular motions going. “Are… are you close?”

“I…” Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t think I can…”

“That’s ok,” John kissed him, quickly. “You don’t have to chase an orgasm. I like just being able to make you feel good. Is this ok?”

“Very,” Sherlock’s hips jolted up, and John’s fingers slipped, skimming over the entrance to his vagina, and Sherlock gasped as pleasure shot through him. John moved his fingers away, as instructed, and Sherlock felt a rush of gratitude. As nice as it was, he couldn’t have dealt with that on purpose.

He reached, and took John in hand again, feeling the slight slick at his glans, John’s foreskin retracted back, his cock throbbing as Sherlock lightly stroked over him.

“Fuck,” John’s hand stilled, his fingers pressed against Sherlock’s cock. “Sher – Sherlock – I’m – I’m gonna –”

“Yes,” Sherlock arched under John’s hand, and gripped him tight as John came, half over Sherlock’s leg and half on the bed, his moans muffled by the duvet and pillows.

Sherlock grabbed some tissues, and tried to wipe off what he could without looking. John’s hand rested on his pubic bone.

“Do you want me to try and… get you?” John asked, his voice very small and soft.

“No, it’s ok…” Sherlock stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about how he could get himself off in less than a minute, if he wanted. But he didn’t really mind. “…were you ok, with it?”

“With what?”

“With… my body?”

John frowned, and leaned up to look down at Sherlock. “Seriously? Sherlock… I don’t have a problem with any bit of you. I… you’re sexy, and handsome, and you get me going like I don’t know what.” He stroked down Sherlock’s jaw. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Sherlock pulled him down into a kiss, the duvet covers wedged between their lower halves as they snuggled together in a nest of love.

 

*

 

Back to school was so unremarkable Sherlock was surprised they’d even had seven weeks off. He got a new student ID, laughing as he showed John the difference between this new one and last year’s baby-faced version, and signed up for his final year of A-Levels without a hitch.

No one gave him more than a nod, and no one knew he’d been in hospital, and Sherlock realised school was actually a nice escape from everything else he had going on. All school required from him was to be clever, and he could do that easily.

They took their places in Chemistry, and John resumed his meticulous note-taking, as Sherlock resumed his annoying habit of answering every question before it had barely left the teacher’s mouth.

Across the room, a new student sat by himself. He looked completely unremarkable, with black hair, dark eyes, and a mouth that looked ready to smile. He was alone, but he wouldn’t be for long, by the look of him. He was listening attentively, eyes occasionally skimming the room, taking in the other students in the class, looking for possible friends.

The teacher sighed at the single hand in the air, again. “Can someone other than Sherlock please make an effort to answer,” he glared at the class.

“ _Sherlock_?” the new boy whispered to himself, looking over. He looked at the student with their hand up.

“Fine,” the teacher shook his head. “Mr Holmes, give us the answer.”

“Testosterone,” Sherlock answered.

“Thank you, correct. The chemical formula _C19, H28, O2_ corresponds to…”

The new boy smiled to himself.

He had just stolen a secret.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sexual content, including vaginal penetration. Misgendering, self injury, and transphobic slurs. As always, be mindful of your own triggers.

They were in the library, working opposite one another, their shoes touching beneath the table as they both worked through their homework. Sherlock was drawing a graph, leaning on his ruler for a straight line, when a shadow fell over the desk.

He looked up, on reflex.

“Well, hello, _Sherlock_ ,” the boy grinned, his dark eyes glittering.

Sherlock’s neat straight line skidded off at an angle. His hands went numb, and he felt every drop of blood in his body rush to  his head, so black spots exploded in his vision. This was extremely very not good.

“J-Jim?” he forced out. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

Jim pointed to the badge on his blazer. “I go here. I’m a pupil. Christ, Sherlock, I thought you were meant to be clever…”

John frowned up at the new boy. “Who are you?”

Jim smirked, and glanced at him. “Jim Moriarty. I knew Sherlock at our old school. I have to say though… Sherlock is looking rather different, these days.”

John looked at Sherlock, who couldn’t bring himself to face him.

“Jim… Please,” Sherlock whispered, shocked at himself for how fast he’d resorted to begging. “Please, don’t say anything.”

“Your boyfriend already knows,” Jim nodded at John. “I can see that much. But hiding yourself from everyone else? Tut tut… Such a waste. You were so pretty.”

Sherlock realised his paper was scrunched up in his hands, his nails digging into his palms in terror.

“No offence, but can you fuck off?” John said, pushing his chair back and standing. “I’d appreciate if it you stopped intimidating my boyfriend.”

“ _Boy_ friend?” Jim smirked. He looked back at Sherlock, eyes darting from Sherlock’s short hair to his chin, his chest, his hands. “I admit, Sherlock looks the part, but some _parts_ will never have the looks, will they?”

Sherlock felt horribly sick.

John grabbed Jim by the shirt front and yanked him close. “Apologise,” he snarled, “or I’ll break your nose. Just fucking try me.”

“As if you can afford to get suspended when you need the cleanest record you can get to go to university,” Jim laughed, right into John’s face. “Your grades are good, but only because Sherlock helps you, and you know it. You need a scholarship because you’re as poor as shit, and, just so you know, you smell like it, too. What were you doing last night? Sleeping in the dog’s basket whilst Daddy fucked some whore in your bedroom?”

John went scarlet.

Sherlock leapt up, and put a hand on his clenched fist. “John, don’t. This is what he wants. Drop him.”

John looked as though he’d rather punch Jim into putty, but did what Sherlock said, face contorted in rage.

Jim brushed at his uniform. “Well, this was fun. I’d better be off.”

“You’ll keep your damn mouth shut about Sherlock,” John warned.

Jim shrugged. “I might. But where’s the fun in that?”

“Jim, please,” Sherlock said. “Please, you can’t.”

“I can.”

“Please!”

Jim grinned. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it? Well, I won’t keep you in suspense for too long, darling.” He eyed over Sherlock’s body. “Have to say, even I missed you. Such a waste.” He winked at John, and swept out of the library before either of the other boys could speak.

“Oh god…” Sherlock’s legs gave way, and John had to catch him under the arms. “Oh god, oh god…”

John helped him to the carpeted floor, sitting beside him as he caught his breath. “Shit… Sherlock, deep breaths. He’s gone, it’s ok…”

“It’s not…” Sherlock opened his hands, looking at the bloody crescents he’d left in his palms. “It’s not… he… he knows. He…”

“It’s ok,” John pulled him close, so Sherlock was leaning against his chest. He stroked Sherlock’s hair, and kissed it, not caring they were at school, that anyone might see.

Sherlock could barely appreciate the gesture. His insides were churning, his binder felt too tight, and he wanted to lie face-down on concrete and scream. Jim Moriarty. At his school.

“He knew me before,” Sherlock said softly. “He knew me before.”

John nodded. “Was he a bastard then, too?”

“No. Yes, but…” Sherlock swallowed. “He was my boyfriend.” He felt John’s hands falter, then resume their stroking.

“Right.”

“It was just a teenage thing,” Sherlock said. “I was… trying. It was so confusing. I liked boys, so how could I want to be one? I thought… I was just messed up, in my head. I knew what _transgender_ meant, but sometimes I didn’t feel like the books or websites said. I hated my body, but not all of it. I liked my face, and hands, and I didn’t feel too awful about… below the belt. Because people couldn’t see. But I hated my chest. I still hate it. I thought maybe I just wanted a certain body aesthetic, not to be a boy. Maybe I was wrong.”

“…is that what he told you?”

“…yes.”

John made a noise through his teeth. “D’you want to get out of here?”

Sherlock nodded. They collected their things, and walked around to the bike sheds. John got his bike out, and Sherlock got on the back, on the seat, hanging onto the saddle’s edge as John pedalled them away from school.

They didn’t speak during the ride.

Sherlock thought. Thought back to being fifteen, what that had been like.

He saw himself in his mind’s eye. Long hair, down to his elbows, all dark curls and ringlets, held off his face with a headband. He wore a skirt to school, because it was The Rules. His thumb-nails were bitten down to the quick, and he had curved scars on his thighs from digging his remaining nails into his skin until it broke. He’d walk to school, ignoring the shouts of _freak_ and _dyke_ , which had only gotten worse when he started using the gym at home, and developing muscles in his arms and back. Those soon vanished when he stopped eating to try and prevent any flesh settling on his hips and chest.

_“You’re beautiful as you are,” Jim said, hooking at arm through him. “You don’t need to be a boy, Sherlock. Your body is just transport. What I love is your brain. You understand that, don’t you?”_

“Here we go,” John said, pulling into the park.

Sherlock jumped down, and John leaned his bike against a picnic bench before joining Sherlock to sit at it. The September air was cool, but pleasant enough to sit in without a coat after a ride.

John waited a moment, then took Sherlock’s hand, and squeezed. “Are you frightened?”

“Yes. He… He’s not like a normal bully, John. He’ll tell people, just because he can. He doesn’t want anything. Just to cause chaos and pain.”

John’s face looked somewhere between sorrow and pain. “What happened with you two? You don’t have to tell me –”

“He did it to be funny – it made him laugh,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. “He found it… funny, that I was trying to figure out who he was, and everything he said confused me more. He knew I was vulnerable, and trying to figure out new ideas, and I was struggling. So, he fed me lies, and misinformation, and he was amused by it. More than that, he found it hysterical that he could be in a relationship with a _tranny_.”

John’s arm went rigid at the slur. “That’s… sick. Of him to think that, I mean. To do that to you.”

“I had no one else,” Sherlock looked over at the empty football pitch. “I thought he was my friend. I liked how he made me feel, at first. But then… if I said I was upset, he’d use that to prove I was a girl. Or, he’d say that’s what friends do. I didn’t know. I had nothing to compare it to. I knew I liked some things. I liked kissing him, and… stuff. But when I said ‘no’, he acted as though I’d broken his heart.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should have decked him one. Suspension be damned. I should have ripped his fucking head off.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock said. “The sooner you do, the sooner he’ll tell.”

“Wil anyone even believe him?” John asked. “I mean… you look nothing like a girl. I don’t think you ever have.”

“Because you were told from the word ‘go’ that I was a boy. Your mind accepted it because there was no alternative. If you hadn’t known, what would you think? Would you see me like you do, if you’d known from the start? We’ll never know.”

John let go of Sherlock’s hand, and put his arm around him. “I don’t know. But you’re my boyfriend, and I love you, and I swear to go, if this fucker hurts you I will end him.”

Sherlock leaned into the cuddle, and sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what _he’ll_ do.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll sort it,” John cupped Sherlock’s cheek. “I promise you.”

 

*

 

Sherlock was in the shower, John waiting in his bedroom for him to come back.

They’d gotten back to Sherlock’s house and fallen on each other like mad things – desperate for touch, for feelings, for pleasure, for physical contact of any kind.

They’d barely spoken. Just unwrapped each other quickly, shedding layers atop the bedclothes, Sherlock throwing off his school shirt for the first time, revealing the tight binder that compressed his chest. John had kissed it, kissed Sherlock, his throat and neck and shoulders, over his binder, his arms, his wrists, hands, stomach, swirling his tongue around Sherlock’s naval, kissing the dark hairs than trailed from it, down to his underwear, kissing over the fabric, mouthing at the hardness hidden beneath.

Sherlock put a hand to John’s hair, gasping as John nosed and kissed at his cock, before sliding a hand in to part the fold of cotton, and dragging a thumb over the pert head of Sherlock’s cock.

“Fuck,” Sherlock gasped, his hips twitching. “John…”

“Can I use my mouth?” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded, closing his own eyes a second before wedging a pillow under his head so he could see John parting the gap in his boxer-briefs to expose his cock, and planting a kiss onto it.

“So gorgeous,” John breathed, kissing again, his lips soft, his tongue just flicking between them, like a sharp, electric point that made Sherlock gasp. The tongue came back, licking softly at Sherlock’s erect flesh, teasing at the swollen head, caressing over the shaft.

Sherlock gripped the bedsheets, his legs parting further without thinking.

John looked up at him. “Can I take your pants off?”

He’d see.

He’d see anyway.

Sherlock nodded, once.

His underwear was pulled off quickly, and John immediately resumed his kisses, to Sherlock’s scarred thighs, his pubic bone, his cock. Kisses turned to licks, to exploratory tastes of broad tongue, and teasing of the tip.

Sherlock covered his mouth as pleasure bloomed inside and outside him, John’s mouth moving to suck him, then, firmly, his tiny cock drawn into that hot mouth where it swelled, pleasure shooting up Sherlock’s body, dampening other places, which suddenly he felt were neglected.

He touched John’s wrist, currently resting on his bare thigh, and took hold of his hand.

John’s eyes flicked up, but he didn’t stop his delicious, rhythmic licks and sucks.

Sherlock could barely concentrate as he pushed John’s hand below his chin, and John had to stop as he realised where he was being taken.

“Sherlock… are you sure?” he took control of his own hand, then, fingers wavering a hair’s breadth from the soft, wet flesh.

It was as though Sherlock could feel the ghost of his touch before it began. It was torture. “John – god – please – just –” his words were cut off as John gently stroked a single finger up, parting his folds, touching at the source of his slick, moving quickly back up to Sherlock’s cock, smearing it so pleasure crackled, like lightning, over Sherlock’s body.

“God!” He threw his head back.

John smiled, and bent his head down again, licking and sucking as before at Sherlock’s erection, swirling his tongue over the exposed and sensitive head, pushing back the soft protective skin to spark pleasure along the shaft, even as his fingers traced, feather-light, either side of Sherlock’s entrance, tracing the shape of his pleasure, feeling Sherlock’s body open, ask for more.

So when John sank his middle finger inside, Sherlock keened in sensation, slipping down his pillow as his body sought depth, and John gave it to him, curling his finger up, searching for the soft, sponge-like pad of feelings – that bundle of nerves that he knew existed – even as he slowly worked his finger in and out. Sherlock’s cock throbbed against his tongue.

And Sherlock orgasmed.

For the first time at John’s touch.

Wetness soaked John’s hand as he slid a second finger inside, riding out Sherlock’s climax as his internal muscles clenched around him.

After that, there had been love, and kisses, and promises, and all sorts, before Sherlock said he needed a shower, and John curled up to wait for him.

**_Ding_.**

John lifted his phone, expecting a text from Sherlock, from the bathroom. Demanding tea, maybe.

But that wasn’t it.

It was a picture message.

From a number he didn’t recognise.

Of a girl he most certainly did.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Transphobia, misgendering, gender confusion, self-hatred, dysphoria, mentions of self harm.

John stayed over at Sherlock’s – in the spare room, as was the requirement, according to Violet Holmes. She might have a vague idea of what they were up to, but as long as they were separate at night, that seemed good enough for her.

Sherlock kissed John goodnight, and went off to his own room, the unpleasantness with Jim still hanging over them, but it was clear from Sherlock’s behaviour that he hadn’t received the same message John had.

John sighed, and opened the message again, his phone too bright in the dark of the room.

The girl – the Sherlock girl – stared back at him, smiling happily.

John bit his lip.

It was Sherlock, and not Sherlock. Sherlock’s sister, was what he would have guessed at, without knowing. The girl in the photo had very long, dark hair, down to her elbows. She was wearing a school-uniform grey skirt, and tights, and shoes with heels. She carried a handbag-style schoolbag, not a rucksack. She looked happy.

He.

 _He_ looked happy. It was still Sherlock, and Sherlock was a boy. John shoved his phone under his pillow, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

 

*

 

He didn’t feel any better the next morning, at breakfast. He sat at the table in the kitchen, looking at the photo again, at the face of the figure in it, at their smooth face and rounded cheeks.

Mycroft came in, and John blanked his phone, reaching for the milk, instead. “Good morning, John.”

“Morning…” John poured, and set the jug back down. He picked up his spoon, and twirled it, worrying. “Mycroft… are there any… any picture of Sherlock, before… before he…”

Mycroft looked up, sharply. “I do hope you’re not about to ask what I think you are.”

John went red with shame.

Mycroft set his tea down. “Any photographs of Sherlock taken before last year are put away, as he has requested. I don’t think he would be at all happy to know you’ve made a request to see them.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I’m really sorry, please don’t –”

“I shan’t say anything to Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “However, I am concerned about where your sudden interest had sprung from..?”

John almost blurted it out, showed Mycroft then and there, except Sherlock came in, then, in his pyjamas, yawning, his hair on end.

“Morning,” he said sleepily, planting a kiss on John’s cheek.

His breasts brushed against John’s arm, soft in his loose t-shirt top, and John felt himself tense.

Sherlock didn’t notice, wandering over to the fridge for juice, but Mycroft did. He gave John a hard look.

John shoved his chair back, and cleared his throat. “I’m going to get dressed. See you in a sec.”

“Ok,” Sherlock looked around the fridge door, and the light coming from within hit his chest, making it easier to see the outline of his nipples, the curve of his breasts.

John left the room, deleting the picture he’d been sent as soon as he was out of sight. It was messing with his head. He didn’t care that Sherlock had boobs – lots of boys did, for starters, and John didn’t care, he really didn’t care. Sherlock was a boy, and that was all that mattered.

 _Except he wasn’t. He didn’t used to be,_ a horrible, evil, voice said, in John’s mind.

He shook his head. He didn’t believe that. He didn’t. Sherlock might not have _looked_ like a typical boy, but he still was one, inside.

John wanted to slap himself.

 

*

 

Sherlock had noticed John was in a strange mood, but put it down to him not being allowed to punch Jim Moriarty into a paste, the day before. They got into school with minutes to spare, tearing off in different directions with only a hurried kiss as they went off to separate lessons.

Sherlock went to sit at the back in his Maths class, to continue with the solo work he’d been given by the exasperated teacher.

Only to find his usually empty desk occupied.

Jim patted the seat beside him. “Room for one more, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glowered, looking up at the teacher, who seemed irritated that he hadn’t yet taken a seat. She wasn’t going to help him, overworked as she was, child in hospital, marriage on the ropes.

Sherlock slumped into the seat, vibrating with anger.

“That’s the spirit,” Jim smirked. He stretched out his arms, and looked Sherlock over properly. “Are you wearing a binder?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarled, taking his textbook out.

“You must have, though. And it’s a shame, I must say,” Jim kept his voice low. “You never suited shirts and ties and suits, Sherlock. You’re just not built for it. You’ve got gorgeous curves.”

Sherlock tried very hard not to snap the pencil he was holding.

“Of course, it’s all your own choice. But, why bother? John Watson is clearly bisexual, he’d have you without all this,” Jim gestured at Sherlock’s chest. “You could save yourself so much hassle, all those doctor’s visits…”

“I’m not doing this for John,” Sherlock hissed.

“Then what’s the point? No one else is going to want to be with you.”

Sherlock scratched at his forearm, trying to suppress the urge to stab himself with the pencil. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Mm, maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re better off on your own.”

Sherlock looked at the whiteboard, and tried to concentrate hard on the lesson, ignoring the evil bastard next to him, trying to tell himself over and over that it was all lies, that John loved him, and he was a boy, and that he was doing this because he _had_ to, he just _had_ to…

The bell rang, and Sherlock shoved his things into his bag, standing and leaving the room before anyone else was even out of their seats. He half-ran, on autopilot, down the steps, to the toilets, walking in, and hearing screams.

“Fuck off!”

“Shit, sorry,” Sherlock threw an arm up over his eyes as he exited the girls’ sharpish, just in time to be seen by the rest of his maths class.

“Woah, Sherlock, trying for a peek at the ladies?” someone teased.

“No, I just… wrong door,” Sherlock went scarlet, and everyone laughed at him.

“Nah,” Jim called. “He’s a girl.”

Sherlock went from red to white like flicking a switch, but luckily for him the boys took it as a joke and laughed at the absurdity of it.

“Toilets for girls and gays,” someone laughed. “Real men on the other side.”

“What – and lesbians?”

“Nah, they have to stay with the girls. Unless they want putting back to normal,” the lad getting carried away gripped his cock through his trousers and there was more laughter.

Sherlock walked away, attention having shifted from him, disgust over his own cowardice and stupidity crawling over his skin like someone was pouring oil onto his head. He went out into the quad, and sat on the steps, catching his breath, trying to think straight.

Jim Moriarty… that utter bastard. He was trying to mess with Sherlock’s head again, the way he did at his last school.

Sherlock couldn’t let him get to John, and start interfering with his mind, too.

He picked up his bag, and went off to Biology, where he would be with John – he had to warn him.

 

*

 

“Ayyyyye, here he is, the big girl,” someone crowed as Sherlock walked in.

John looked up in horror, but Sherlock looked unconcerned at the bullies flapping their wrists at him. Sherlock gave them the Vs, and sat next to John with a sigh.

“Don’t ask. I accidentally walked into the girls’ toilets.”

John dropped his pen. “The girls…” he spluttered.

“I know,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And everyone saw. Classic.”

John tried to think. “Sherlock… did you… did you _want_ to be in there?”

“What? No, of course not,” Sherlock frowned. “Why would I?”

John didn’t know what to say.

Sherlock turned to look at him. “John what’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath. “Jim… at least, I think it was him… Sent me a photo of you. You, before you… transitioned,” he whispered.

Sherlock’s face fell, and he looked grey. “Oh my god…”

“I’ve deleted it,” John said quickly. “I just… it came through after we… were... you know, last night. It… I didn’t want to see it, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’m sorry. I should have said –”

Sherlock pushed himself away from the desk, picked up his bag, and marched out. Not even the teacher had a chance to call him back in.

“Shit,” John panicked. “Sir – sir, I need to go with him, please –”

“Watson, Holmes is a big boy –”

“Big _girl_ ,” a lad muttered.

John clenched a fist. “Please, sir.”

The teacher sighed, and waved him off, and John pelted from the room, trying to think which direction Sherlock would have gone.

 

*

 

Sherlock sat on the ground, beside the bike sheds, cigarette in his mouth, making no attempt to wipe the tears that were coming.

John had seen.

John had seen him as a girl. All those skirts and long hair and lip-gloss and… God, it was ruined. It was all ruined. John would never, _ever_ , look at him again and not see the girl in the picture. He’d only see Sherlock’s body, now, as a gross distortion of genders, not fitting anywhere.

John had always accepted him. Even when he found out – when he saw Sherlock cutting at his own breasts, he’d accepted it. Because Sherlock had still looked like a boy.

But now, Sherlock thought as he wiped his eyes, finally, John would only ever see that dead girl.

 


	15. Chapter 15

It took John only seventeen minutes to find Sherlock, by which time he was on his second cigarette.

“How you doing?” John leaned against the bike sheds and looked down at his love, at the tear-tracked face, the red nose, the shaking hands.

Sherlock shrugged, shook his head, and puffed out smoke before stubbing the thing out on the concrete. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m not leaving you here on your own.”

“I meant you don’t have to stay… here. In this,” Sherlock gestured between the two of them. “I… You’ve seen the… the _before footage_ ,” he sniffed. “You’ll never un-see it. You’ll never…” he wiped his face, brutally. “I never wanted you to see what came before me. I never wanted –”

John knelt down, and took Sherlock’s hands, holding them both firmly in his own. “Sherlock, that’s enough.”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes glazed, snot on his upper lip, stubble with tiny bits of fluff clinging to it where he’d wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Sherlock… I know you didn’t want me to see. I know. I get it. And… It shocked me. Because I wasn’t expecting to see it. I’m not going to lie, it messed with my head a bit, but it didn’t make me think–”

“I’m not a girl,” Sherlock snapped. “I’m not. I never have been -”

“I know,” John touched Sherlock’s head. “I know, Sherlock, I know. You’ve always been a boy, and you always will be. No matter what you were wearing, what your hair looked like, or whatever. I know you never wanted me to see what you looked like before we met. But I’m not sorry I do. It doesn’t make me think differently of you. I still love you, and I still want to be with you. You’re the boy I love, ok? This bastard isn’t going to split us up over something so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Sherlock tore his hands away, and wiped his face again. “It’s…” he took a shuddering breath. “You already have to put up with me not having a… And now you’ve seen what I used to…” his voice dissolved, and he started mouthing wordlessly.

John took Sherlock’s hands again. “It doesn’t change anything. Ok? I swear to you, it doesn’t change anything. I don’t regret seeing that picture, because I don’t believe it’s something for you to be ashamed of. Ok? I know… I know you’d like to think that nothing existed before you started transitioning. But you existed. You did, and I’m so glad you did. Because it meant I was able to meet you. You were still you. You were. I know it.”

Sherlock looked down at their clasped hands. His mouth turned down spectacularly. “I just wish you didn’t know.”

“You wish… I didn’t know you’re trans?” John asked softly.

“Yes. No… No, I…” Sherlock looked up. “I know we can’t be… together… without you knowing. I can’t change who I am, even though I’m trying to. I just want… I want you to forget what you saw. I want you to forget the girl in that photo.”

“Sherlock… that wasn’t a girl,” John said, carefully. “That was you.”

There was a silence.

Sherlock frowned, and looked into John’s eyes. “…what?”

“That wasn’t a girl, in the photo, and it wasn’t a girl in real life,” John said. “Because you’re not one. So… it wasn’t a girl, was it?”

Sherlock blinked, his eyes filling with fresh tears. “No,” he gulped, “no, no, it wasn’t… it was…”

“It was you,” John gathered him into his arms, into his lap as they hunched on the concrete floor, the wind cutting through their clothes. “It was you, Sherlock, and that’s ok. I love you. I still love you. I’m just sorry I didn’t show it sooner.”

Sherlock hid his face in the crook of John’s neck. He didn’t reply, just let the tears come, and let John soothe him, touch him, kiss him, love him better.

 

*

 

“How did he get such a picture?” Mycroft asked.

They were sitting in the kitchen. John had retrieved the deleted photo off his phone, and he and Sherlock had agreed that the only adult they trusted to tell was Sherlock’s big brother. Mycroft hadn’t stopped pacing and seething since he heard the story.

“He went to my last school,” Sherlock said miserably, picking at the skin of his wrists with a fingernail. John gently pushed his hand away. “He was… a friend.”

“Friend…” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “Well… I’m not sure how best to proceed, here. If we make a complaint of bullying, it would mean you coming out to a member of staff.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Then… what do you expect me to do?”

“Make him disappear, or something!” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, I don’t know what you think I do, but I’m a Junior Executive in the Civil Service. I don’t work for MI6. I can’t just make people _disappear_.”

“Then get him expelled!”

“On what grounds? Sherlock – the only way I can do this is if you confide in more people than you already have. Transphobic bullying may well be enough to have Moriarty expelled, but to charge him with that, I would need you to come out to more people.” Mycroft ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing else I can do.”

Sherlock pushed his chair back from the table. “Fine. You won’t help me. I get it.”

John stood, quickly following him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, to the bathroom, catching the door just before Sherlock turned to slam it.

“Get off, John,” Sherlock was trembling.

“Not a chance.”

“I need the loo.”

“Like hell you do.”

They glared at one another.

John swallowed. “You can’t cut your way out of this.”

Sherlock let go of the door in shock. “I…”

“Don’t,” John said, stepping in and catching his boyfriend around the waist. “Just don’t. I know the urge is there, but you’re stronger than it is. Come on, let’s go take your mind off it.”

Sherlock sighed, as if he was letting out every drop of air in his body, leaning down to rest his forehead against John’s. “…ok.”

They crossed the landing to Sherlock’s room, and closed the door behind them. Sherlock flopped face-down on the bed, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

John sat beside him, and hesitated, before touching. Sherlock was as tense as a taut bow-string, clearly wrestling with the urge to hurt himself, trying to block out the sensation. He once described it to John as feeling as though he would have a heart attack if he didn’t hit himself, as though he was clockwork, wound too tight, and had to punch or slap or cut to release it, or else explode and die on the spot.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, and hid his face further.

John gave a sad smile. Then gently brushed Sherlock’s curls with his fingers.

Sherlock didn’t react.

John continued, combing through the messy strands, smoothing the tiny knots out one by one, separating the hairs, letting them lie longish and wavy, curled at the ends. John deepened his touches, running his fingers firmly over Sherlock’s scalp.

“Ah…” Sherlock finally reacted, letting out a sigh of pleasure at the sensation, arching his neck as John pressed his thumb into the dip where his skull met his backbone. “Mmmm…”

John shifted on the bed, applying his left hand, too, pressing firmly at Sherlock’s head, raking his nails just enough to feel nice, not painful, over the sensitive skin. Sherlock shivered, and moved his head for John to reach every bit, massaging and combing and drawing out the tension from Sherlock’s mind, as if he was leeching it directly from his brain.

“John…”

“Feeling better?”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“You’ll fall asleep.”

“Good.”

John smiled, carrying on the scalp massage. “…he’s right, you know. Mycroft.”

“Mm,” Sherlock snorted.

“We can try to just ignore him?”

“He’ll get tired of trying to break us, eventually, and just announce it to everyone,” Sherlock sighed. “He’d enjoy the fall-out, watching me get abuse.”

“…you might not.”

“They already make my life hell for being gay,” Sherlock moved his head to lie on his side. “I haven’t even said ‘yes’ when someone’s asked if we’re going out. I don’t want you to get it, too.”

“You need to tell me who’s doing this,” John said. “If you won’t let me beat Jim up, at least let me crack a few idiots’ heads.”

“I’ll make you a list,” Sherlock yawned. “But yes… If they think I’m a girl, that’s all I’ll ever be, to them. They’re not like you. People… People love, and abhor what’s different. They’re frightened of it, and they love to watch it, like looking at the wreckage as you drive past a car accident. They can’t help it. They’d… want to check.”

“Check? What – oh, fuck,” John clenched a fist. “I’d be going to jail for doing a murder.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, for now,” John reasoned, “let’s keep on. Show him we’re above it. Show him we don’t care. If he’s not bothering us, he might get bored, and move on.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock pouted, as John lifted his hand away. “But… it will have to do. For now.”

John leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Do you need me to stay?” That meant _do you want me to stay_.

Sherlock considered. “No. It’s ok.”

“Ok. I’ll meet you at the gates, tomorrow.” John kissed him again, and left his boyfriend sprawled on the bed, still in his uniform. He went down the stairs, and said thank you to Mycroft, who nodded, standing to take his tea upstairs, where he could listen out, and keep Sherlock safe.

 

*

 

John just parked his bike up at home, when another massage came through.

It was Sherlock, again.

A picture, that is.

Sherlock, aged about ten, in a pink party dress, his hair in pigtails, white patent leather shoes on his feet.

He was beaming with pure happiness.

John smiled back at the image, the child’s joy infectious.

Moriarty wanted to poison John’s mind, John’s image of Sherlock.

All he’d shown him was that Sherlock had great capacity to be this full of joy. And John was going to make sure he was, once again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long to update, please forgive me.
> 
> Warnings for: homophobia, transphobia, suicidal thoughts

Sherlock woke before his alarm went off, and stared at the grey light filtering through the curtains. He felt tired, and wrung-out, and so ready to roll back over and sleep for ever. No more worry, no more angst, no more fear, or disgust with himself… It would be so peaceful.

He gripped the bedclothes.

John would never forgive him. It would break John’s heart. And Mycroft, too. And probably their parents. They had been trying. They had, Sherlock had to admit. They didn’t call him a girl, anymore, and they bought him clothes and things for boys… it hadn’t been a straight road, but Sherlock was, really, surrounded by people who loved him for who he was.

He couldn’t let one idiot ruin it all.

He shoved the covers down, and sat up, looking at himself in the mirrored wardrobe door. He liked himself more and more by the day. He liked the way his chest was dusted with fine black hair. He liked the increasing depth of his voice. He didn’t much care for the acne on his upper back, but it was tolerable. Sherlock gave his reflection a small smile.

“Time for a new day,” he said softly, getting up and stretching, feeling blood rush into his muscles to start the morning.

 

*

 

Mycroft looked up as Sherlock entered the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of juice. “Feeling better?”

“It’d be difficult to feel worse,” Sherlock said. “John helped.”

Mycroft’s nostrils flared slightly, but he didn’t comment. He turned the page of his broadsheet. “And what about this… Moriarty?”

“Ignoring him seems to be the safest course of action.” Sherlock put his glass down. “John sent me this, this morning.” He pushed his phone towards Mycroft, who frowned, and picked it up, looking at the image of little Sherlock in his pink dress.

“Where did he get this?”

“John has it sent to him.”

“I meant Moriarty,” Mycroft said. “Where would he get this image of you?”

Sherlock paused. “I… don’t know. He got the first one from the school yearbook. I’ve got a copy myself.”

“But this… this is a family photo. Mummy’s birthday, if I remember rightly…” Mycroft’s frown deepened. “Sherlock, are you quite sure this photograph has never been online?”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock nodded. “Never.”

Mycroft handed the phone back. “We may yet have a chance with getting this boy expelled.”

 

*

 

John was waiting for him at the school gates. “Hey, love,” he gave Sherlock a quick hug. “You ok?”

“Actually, yeah,” Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft thinks he can –”

“Come on, gay boys,” someone crowed. “Get a move on!”

John rolled his eyes. “Tell me in form group, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled, tempted for a moment to seize John’s hand, but knowing that John might not be ready for that. PDA was not everyone’s cup of tea, even if it was just holding hands.

They made it to form group with seconds to spare, and took their usual seats at the front, fingers brushing beneath the desk, just once, before they got out their planners.

“So, what does Mycroft think?” John murmured.

“He think he can get Jim expelled,” Sherlock breathed in reply.

John’s pen slipped. “What? Seriously?”

“Yes. He thinks Jim might have hacked into our home network to access family photos. That’s a crime. He’s doing some sort of trace at work, today.”

“That’s… your brother is actually alright,” John said, sounding amused. “Who’d’ve thought?”

“Not me, that’s for sure.”

The form was dismissed, and the boys headed out to Chemistry.

“Sherlock… if he does get kicked out… what do you think to maybe… us being… out?”

Sherlock felt a blush appear. “A proper couple?”

“One everyone knows about?”

Sherlock could never have stopped the wide grin that broke over his face. “Yes. Yes, that would be… incredible.”

John smiled back. “I’m glad. I don’t want to stay secret, anymore. It’s shit.”

“It really is.”

There was a queue on the Science stairs – the doors to the upper levels hadn’t been opened yet, and there were a lot of children milling about. Sherlock and John leaned against the wall on the ground floor, waiting patiently for the bell.

“If he figures out Mycroft is onto him, he could still make things difficult,” John said softly. “Could he figure it out?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “It’s possible. I don’t really want to think about it.” He bit his lip. “He could have some sort of alert sent to his phone if the image, or the hack, is traced…” He started biting the skin beside his thumbnail.

“Hey, don’t do that,” John said, taking his hand. “You’ll make it bleed.”

Sherlock sighed, catching his breath, trying to listen to his own heartbeat as John let go of his hand. “Sorry. I… Thinking about it makes me…”

“I know.” John looked as though he wanted to kiss him. “But it’s ok, I’m here, yeah?”

The doors on the floor above opened, and the students started filing up and through. Sherlock pushed his worries to the back of his mind, or tried to, and took his usual seat beside John before the teacher waved to get his class’ attention.

“Practical today, everyone. Lab coats and goggles on, method is on the board, make sure you write it up into your books _before_ you start – Quinlan, I don’t care if your book’s been on fire, you’re going to have to find a clean page…”

Sherlock sighed, and went to fetch his lab coat, securing his goggles on top of his head before grabbing his biro and writing down the method in cursive, hiding a smile as John smudged his work, swearing under his breath.

“He could just print off this, and give it us all to stick into our books,” he grumbled.

“Come on, John, he has an hour to kill with us,” Sherlock smirked.

There was only one gas tap on the desk, so Sherlock surrendered it to John, and went to work on one of the surrounding benches. He set up his tripod and Bunsen, and started measuring out his chemicals, noting as he did so.

“Sherlock, ever the pedant,” a familiar Irish drawl came from his left. “You’re not working for Proctor and Gamble yet, sweetheart.”

Some other students laughed.

Sherlock picked up his test tube in the metal tongs. “And the circus isn’t in town, Jim, and yet you’re still in fine form for the freak show.”

There was more laughter, and, to Sherlock’s delight, a few ‘oooh’s to declare him the winner of that particular exchange.

Jim’s lip curled. “Get your brother to write that one for you? Or is he too busy sticking his fat nose where it’s not wanted?”

“I assume the latter, since it’s his job,” Sherlock said, holding the tube over the blue flame. “And he’s very good at it. Very efficient.”

The other students glanced at each other. The conversation was no longer joking, and they didn’t understand it.

“There’s plenty of time left in the school day,” Jim sing-songed. “Plenty of time for me to do what I have to.”

“Or, you could just be the bigger man,” Sherlock said, lifting the tube to check the contents. “Apologise, and we can all move on.”

“Apologise for what?” Jim smirked.

Sherlock lowered the tube again, back into the heat.

“And anyway,” Jim went on. “I’m the only _man_ in this situation.”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s a very loose definition, then.”

“Not as loose as yours, Sherlock.”

Sherlock decanted the tube’s contents into a beaker, and wrote down his observations. He had to ignore Moriarty. Mycroft was clearly on the case, Sherlock had no lessons with Jim after this one, and if he could just make it to the end of the school day, everything would be fine.

His experiment puffed up a little cloud of red dust as the solution dried.

 

*

 

He very nearly escaped, without incident.

Had it not been for John.

Sherlock was racing down the steps after John, the two of the almost late for their next lesson, when it happened.

It was the stupidest thing.

Someone was chasing, laughing, behind them. Two boys winding each other up, having fun. And one opened his bottle of pop, and threw it at the other.

And missed.

Sherlock saw the shower of coke coming.

He ducked, the drink missing him, but as he ducked, he slipped. His shoe skidded on the step, and Sherlock pitched forward, colliding with John, who fell sideways, catching him as they fell the few steps down to the floor, landing hard, but mostly unhurt as other lads wailed and girls shrieked about getting covered in cola.

“Ow,” John said, letting Sherlock go. “Fuck… you ok?”

“I think so,” Sherlock knelt up, and flexed his arms. “Could have been worse, I think.” He touched his temple. “Think I’ve banged my head a bit.”

“Let me see,” John reached, and cupped Sherlock’s chin, turning his head to look. “It’s not bleeding…”

“Oh, yeah, lover-boys?” a boy Sherlock recognised as Craig, made kissing noises at them. “You caught your damsel in distress, then, Watson?”

“Yes, I did,” John said, going as red as a tomato. “Didn’t fancy getting drenched. You look like you’ve pissed yourself. Again.”

There was laughter. Sherlock looked up, and stood, legs wobbling, promising bruises, as John helped him up.

“Are you actually going to admit it, or what?” the bully sneered. “You are fucking him, aren’t you?”

Sherlock almost laughed, the entire situation was so ridiculous.

But John was squaring his shoulders, and he knew John was about to either tell the truth, or throw a punch, and Sherlock didn’t know which he’d prefer.

“He’s not fucking Sherlock,” a clear, high voice cut through. “And if he was, it wouldn’t make him gay.” Jim Moriarty walked calmly down the stairs, as though he was on a catwalk, stepping over discarded bags and the plastic coke bottle, all eyes on him, loving it.

“The fuck you on about, Moriarty?”

Jim’s smirk faltered, and Sherlock stood straighter. Jim hadn’t been in this school long enough to sink his claws into it. He was still a new boy, a pain in the arse. He’d wasted too much time targeting Sherlock, when he could have been making allies.

It didn’t stop him being able to speak, though.

“Sherlock’s a girl.”

Sherlock didn’t react, save to raise one eyebrow.

There was no laughter. Only frowns of confusion.

Craig folded his arms. “He walked into the girls toilets, and that’s the best you can come up with? That was yesterday.” He said it as though it was a million years ago. Maybe, in school-life terms, it was.

Jim shook his head. “I don’t mean that, Mister Parker. I mean Sherlock isn’t a boy. She’s pretending. She’s a girl.”

 _She_.

Sherlock sighed, and looked at the ceiling, realising no one was buying it enough to take it beyond a joke. “Jim… just stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Jim went purple. “I am not making this up. Sherlock is a transsexual. At our old school, she was wearing a skirt and had long hair. That’s why Watson isn’t gay – he’s with a girl playing dress-up!”

Craig, the bully, looked from Jim to Sherlock, his eyes narrowed. “So… he was a girl, and now he’s a boy?”

Jim grinned triumphantly. “Yes.”

Sherlock felt his stomach drop, and John took his hand.

And… to Sherlock’s great shock, the boy in front of them shrugged.

“So, he’s a boy, then. Christ, Moriarty, you’re an attention-seeking, lying twat, aren’t you?”

It was like the spell was broken. Laughter pealed down from the stairwell, all of it directed squarely at Jim Moriarty. His pinched face contorted in fury, and he snatched up his bag, trying to force his way through people who were laughing at him, calling him jealous, a baby, a liar…

And Sherlock felt as though he could levitate with happiness.

Right up until Craig came over, the crowd dispersing behind him. He looked Sherlock up and down. “Was it true?” he asked, his voice low, and soft. Different.

Sherlock stared. Then nodded, once.

Craig’s jaw twitched. He nodded, too. “Anyone else gives you any shit, you come to me, alright?”

Sherlock’s lips parted. “But… why?”

Craig glanced away. “My sister…. Didn’t get the same chances as you. She… got too sad.” He looked up, into Sherlock’s face. “Our mum and dad cut her long hair off, and buried her in a suit and tie.”

Sherlock stepped back, horror swimming in his guts.

John made a noise of anger. “That’s… that’s fucked up.”

“I know,” Craig said. “So you two carry on. And I’m sorry. About before… I don’t deal with things like I should. This… feels like a bit of a wake-up call.” He held his hand out. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock took the hand, and shook it. “Thank you.”

John did the same. “Blank slate, Craig. That means you keep your own mouth to yourself, too.”

“I know.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got to get to French.”

“We are all late,” Sherlock sighed. “Unless we just don’t go?”

John pretended to be shocked. “Sherlock Holmes, missing lessons? I never.” He shook his head. “Come on. We can’t all get away with not attending and still getting top grades.”

They left the building, and ran over the quad to their next lessons.

Over the school fence, Sherlock could just make out a flash of blue lights, driving down to the reception building.

It looked like Mycroft had presented his evidence.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support with this fic!
> 
> Heads up for vaginal sex, and discussion of self harm.

“We thought it best to simply give him a warning, and transfer him to another school,” Mycroft said, passing over a mug. “It is a first offence, even if it is rather severe cyber-crime.”

“I bet it’s not the last,” John said, darkly, before sipping his tea.

Sherlock pulled a face in agreement, eyes on his phone screen. John watched him, as Mycroft glanced between them.

“Mummy and Daddy are on their way home,” Mycroft went on. “They were… upset for you, Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

“Though I kept much of the details to ourselves. They don’t need to know everything.”

Sherlock looked up. “You’re right. They don’t.”

“And you have an appointment with your therapist, on Saturday morning.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared.

“I would play along, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “You need her, for a referral, if surgery is still what you want.”

“Of course it is!”

“Then go to your appointments, and listen to what she says. You’re lucky enough to be able to pay for your treatment, but after your… slip-up… you need to convince her this is a decision you’re making in sound mind.”

Sherlock clicked his phone blank. “Yes, I know. Thank you.”

John smiled, and sipped at his tea, again.

Sherlock sighed. “There was a boy, at school, Mycroft… his sister… did something stupid.”

John glanced up.

Mycroft went very still.

“She was like me… well, not like me… but she was…” Sherlock made a gesture at himself that John couldn’t quite interpret. “She died, and her parents buried her in a suit, and they cut her long hair off. Her brother told me. And… and I…” he went very red, and John saw his hands clench. “I don’t want that to be me. I don’t want – don’t want to die, Mycroft, not really. I…”

John and Mycroft moved at the same time, both of them getting Sherlock in a hug than ended with them all tangled together in the kitchen, Sherlock still trying to explain.

“If I… then on my birth certificate… I don’t have my GRC… they’d say… Sherlock Wendy Sophia…”

Mycroft shushed him. “Sherlock, we would never do that to you. But we don’t want to lose you, either.”

John kissed Sherlock’s arm, as it was all he could reach. “That’s not going to happen, because you’re not going to be in that position, ok? You’re here, and you’re safe, and we love you.”

Sherlock let out a sob, and turned to hide in John’s shoulder, forcing Mycroft to let go as the two teenage boys held onto one another. Sherlock’s tears soon stopped, and his breathing became little shudders for oxygen as John rubbed his back.

“I’m going to get better,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt myself, anymore.”

“I believe you,” John said. He looked up at Sherlock, watching him wipe his face, and give a sort-of smile. “I believe you, and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “That more than makes up for a difficult day,” he teased gently. “I’m sure there’s more emotion where that came from, Sherlock, but do try and save it for therapy.”

“We’re not all emotionally constipated,” Sherlock shot back, but his eyes were glittering with good-humour. “Don’t you have paperwork that needs doing?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but took the hint, and left the two of them alone.

Sherlock waited a few seconds, before taking his phone back out. “I found her,” he said to John.

“Her?”

“Craig’s sister. It was a simple enough search…” he handed the device to John.

A photo of a young man in school uniform looked blankly at him.

 

**_Lucas David Evans (1998 – 2015)_ **

_Died in hospital on 9 th September 2015, after a tragic accident. Lucas leaves behind his parents, and younger brother Craig. Funeral to be held at St Mary’s Church, flowers from family only._

“That’s… so short,” John said. “And wrong.”

“Mm,” Sherlock took the phone back. “But look at Facebook.”

This time, the picture was of a girl, laughing and smiling, her hair blowing in the wind as she tried to hold it back.

 

**_Lucy Evans_ **

_Lucy took her own life after her own family failed to support her. Lucy was a beautiful girl with a lot of promise, who left us far too soon.  I miss her every day. C xx_

“C… Craig?”

“I think so,” Sherlock said, blanking the phone. “I… That’s not going to be me. I mean it. I’m going to be who I am. I can’t not. I have to.”

“You are, and you will be,” John said, gripping Sherlock’s arms firmly. “I promise you, I’m not going anywhere until you kick me out.”

“As if that’s going to happen,” Sherlock smiled, stroking John’s hair. “You said you loved me.”

“Yeah.”

“In front of Mycroft.”

“Well, he’d probably figured it out,” John shrugged. “I’m not exactly subtle.”

Sherlock smiled. “It’s one of your best qualities, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They smirked at each other for a moment, before Sherlock took John’s hand. “Are you coming upstairs, or what?”

John sighed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

*

 

**Ten months later…**

Sherlock’s overnight bag sat, packed, next to the door.

A new dressing gown was draped over the back of the chair.

John sat up in bed, reading, his new glasses on his nose.

Sherlock was clattering about in the bathroom, as usual.

“Are you done, yet?” John called, not looking up. “They’ll make you wash with that anti-microbial stuff, anyway. You’re as clean as you’re going to get.”

“I know that,” An irritable voice snapped back. It was a voice much deeper than a year ago. Sherlock had stormed into puberty, coming out the other side with a deep baritone voice, a very masculine jaw, and a trail of hair from his navel that any hedge-grower would be proud of.

John smiled, and turned a page. Sherlock was no longer a scrawny kid. He’d kept his promises. He’d started eating properly, again, stopped cutting himself, and let the dark hair on his arms hide the scars as best they could. He even went to the gym, with John, though the fact he couldn’t wear his binder made that a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence.

John loved him more than ever.

The bathroom light clicked off, at last, and Sherlock came out, his well-worn dressing gown around himself, as he closed the door, then looked, almost nervously, to John.

“Are you coming to bed?” John closed his book. “You look a bit nervous. Worried about tomorrow?”

“Not really,” Sherlock said. He glanced at the overnight bag. “A little. I suppose.”

“It’ll be ok,” John said. “Promise.” He went to take his glasses off.

“Wait,” Sherlock said. “Leave them on.”

“I can’t sleep in them,” John said, putting his head on one side. “So what were you thinking?”

“I… want you to be able to see,” Sherlock said.

And he started to undo the belt at his gown.

John’s eyebrows went up. “Sherlock… Sherlock, you don’t have to. I don’t care. I don’t need to –”

“I know you don’t need to see,” Sherlock said. “But I want you to. This… is the last time I’m going to look like this. And you’ve never seen.” His mouth twitched. “The incident, aside.” He held the gown together, with a hand.

John sighed. “Sherlock… if you feel this is what you need to do, then, ok, but you don’t _have_ to. We’ve been together over a year and I’ve never seen your chest. I don’t need to, because you didn’t want me to.”

“I want you to, now,” Sherlock said, surety in his voice. “Please. They’ll be gone, this time tomorrow, and… I want you to see.”

John nodded. “Come here, then?”

Sherlock stepped closer, until he was level with the foot of the bed. He took a steady breath, and let his dressing gown fall.

John’s eyes followed the flump of fabric down to the carpet, and then back up. Up Sherlock’s strong legs, fortified by cycling (John’s influence). His pelvis, his cock just visible as he stood, legs slightly apart. Flat-ish stomach, with the red scar of appendicitis from just after Christmas (Sherlock had had to do a pregnancy test, in case the pain was an ectopic pregnancy, despite his insistence that that was impossible, and he had been furious about it), up further to Sherlock’s chest.

John smiled, it pulling up one side of his face. “You really are fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged.

John reached for his wrist, and pulled him onto and into the bed, the two of them snuggling together on their sides, face to face. “Thank you,” he said. “You want to put a top on?”

“Not really,” Sherlock said, stroking down John’s arm. “It’s warm.”

“It is,” John agreed. He raised a hand, tentatively, then touched at Sherlock’s collar-bone, before moving down.

Sherlock stayed still, and John watched as gooseflesh rose on his pale skin, the rose-pink around his nipple tensing and contracting as the central bud hardened, without direct touch.

“That ok?” John whispered.

“I’d’ve punched you if it wasn’t,” Sherlock said, his eyes right on John’s.

“More?”

“Everything.”

John smiled, and they leaned together to kiss.

It was a slow, hesitant, love-making, that was more fumbling than any of their touches so far. John and Sherlock were so young, so teenage, so fragile, that they had to stop, every so often, to kiss, and speak, and reassure, that everything was ok.

John’s fingers slid, slick with lubricant, between the folds of Sherlock, bringing his cock hard, making him shudder and twitch his hips when John’s fingers dipped inside him, tracing the shape of his entrance, the pleasure to be found either side on the smooth flesh, where damp hair curled and stuck, and welcomed.

“John…” Sherlock breathed, tightening his grip around John’s erection. “John, can… can we…”

John looked up, his mouth open in surprise. “What… now?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You’re sure? I mean… ready for that?”

Sherlock pulled an _oh, please_ , face. “Sure. Wanted to ask you a few times but… got carried away.”

“I am pretty good at what I do,” John smirked, rubbing over Sherlock’s cock again, and making him swear. “Still sure?”

“Fucking hell, John.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” John laughed, moving over to his own rucksack, and digging out his washbag. There was a pack of three in there, saved for months, just in case. They’d discussed it, and Sherlock had point-blank refused to consider being penetrated anally. John wasn’t keen, either, but they were both happy with the other option.

They’d just not rushed into it.

There hadn’t ever seemed the need.

It wasn’t as though they were going anywhere.

They had all the time in the world.

Sherlock watched, his chest damp with sweat, neck rosy with kisses and blood, as John undid the box, and took out a condom.

“Let me?” he asked.

John nodded, passing it over, and kneeling up, arms shaking, as Sherlock undid the foil, and took out the roll of latex, checking it was the right side up, before rolling it down John’s cock.

John swallowed hard, gripping Sherlock’s hip with a hand as Sherlock pushed the thin plastic to the base, and then handed John the bottle of lube.

“I don’t know how much.”

“Neither do I,” John said. “Can’t go wrong with lots?”

“You should put some inside me, too,” Sherlock parted his legs, and John wondered how something so clinical could sound so damn sexy.

John did as he was asked, though, and pumped lube onto his fingers before sliding two of them easily inside Sherlock, making him bite his lip and raise his hips, chasing the penetration before John’s hand withdrew, and settled at the base of his lubricated cock.

“You’ll tell me if it’s not right,” John said, lining himself up. “Or smack me, or something, if you can’t speak.”

Sherlock nodded. “Please. I just want to be close to you. Like this.” He shifted on the bed, and John looked over him, at his unique shape, his perfection, his face eager and aroused, and the wet, gleaming pink folds of himself.

 It took a moment of struggle, the two of them trying to meet, and John’s elbow slipping on the bed, and Sherlock tensing at just the wrong moment.

John pulled back, and pushed forward again, and this time it was easier, Sherlock exhaling as he was penetrated, his body pliant around John’s hardness.

“Oh. Oh, fuck,” John pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Jesus… are you ok?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, his voice sounding far away. “Yes, I’m ok. God… you’re in me. Oh, god.”

“Uh…” John’s hips thrust of their own accord. “God – can – can I move – I feel like I need to…”

“Please,” Sherlock nodded, putting his hands on John’s hips. “God, please, just… slow…”

John did as he was asked.

It began slow. So slow, and so careful, as they adjusted to the sensations, the closeness, their own daring. Then Sherlock raised his knees, and raised a leg, and John got the roll of his hips to work properly, and what they were doing went from a fumble to love-making in the blink of an eye.

They kissed, when they could steal one, their bodies joined together as they moved increasingly quickly, John’s brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to hold back.

“Are – you –” he managed to ask.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not like this. It’s ok. Please…”

John gave in, muffling his moan against Sherlock’s chest as he came, shaking, thrusting deep inside, spilling into latex. Sherlock tensed at the sensation, his eyes blowing wide, gasping for a breath, until John withdrew, and they rested a few seconds before John got up, somewhat embarrassedly, and went straight into the bathroom.

He was back, with washed hands, before Sherlock thought to close his legs, and quickly swept his clean fingers through Sherlock’s soaking folds, before bringing that same slick up to his achingly hard cock, and rubbing in a steady, circular motion, over the exposed head, that quickly had Sherlock shuddering, clinging to John’s arms, crying out as he came against John’s hand.

 

*

 

“I love you,” John said, loud enough for everyone to hear, as Sherlock climbed onto the trolley. “I’ll see you as soon as you wake up.”

“You’d better,” Sherlock said. “And I want some chocolate, when I’m brought round.”

“As soon as you’re allowed to eat,” John laughed.

“You’re not Dr Watson, yet,” Sherlock pointed out.

“No, but give me a few years.”

They kissed, and the adults in the room looked away, embarrassed.

“See you soon, Sherlock.”

Sherlock winked, as the orderly started pushing his trolley, wheeling him down to theatre.

John watched the doors close, and wrapped his arms around himself.

It was about time.


End file.
